[RainbowMan]

hey

[PsykoRoman]

6 June 2008

Twenty one and already as aged in the world as an old man,
He sits on his cot, his feet, laced up in boots, resting on the sand that serves as the floor,
Bullet casings and viscera forming a ghastly carpet.
Outside -- Shells bursting, bullets flying in both directions,
Men yelling in two tongues, children crying in one.
He sits, staring, unmoved by the chaos and discord.
All he perceives is right in front of his face
Or, rather, a bit farther away.
In front of his face, a sickly sanguine stump, tattered ACU fabric,
An antique wristwatch, bound to his wrist, to this life, by military tradition,
Passed down father to son, father to son.
It ticks, impossibly resonant, endless second after endless second.
The heirloom frames the stump, giving a golden edge to his arm, as
The hand and the pool of blood add to the already costly carpeting.
From where he sits, he can almost believe that it is still attached.
That it is not an inanimate chunk of meat, but rather him,
wearing his wedding band.
That it is not an inanimate chunk of meat, but rather him,
clutching the only picture that he has of his girls.


Written on 6 June (D-Day anniversary). I can't say I often write poetry, but the mood struck.

[Mike.Sen]

The People and Their Games -(I really don't like this title and only made it when forced to)

When the crows cluck
The Men all truck
to the Wasteland
All full of luck
And ready to pluck
This Season's tree
Pay the fee
And plant it with Glee.

When the crows smile
The Salesmen on trial
for sellin' their hats
To the kids with their piles
of Garbage and Paint.
Their Hinges play Taint
And sound like Saints
Cause their off their game
And live so tame
Like Lions afraid
to get blamed
For shavin' their beards
Cause they wanna be seers
And look just like Veneers.*

When the crows cry
The babies fly
To their Parents
All full of lies
And ready to pry
Their way
Into
a new Chevy
At the dealer by the levee
And drive away
Man, so Heavy.

The crows wish
They could Anguish
Just like Fish
With their fancy Pens.
All the Hens
Look at the Ken
And wish it would call the Lawmen
So he could court
Each of them.

*(Homage to Bob Dylan (specified so I don't get called out))




Monday, October 27, 2008


Poems Making Fun of You: Anthropological Criticisms of Observed Socio-Philosophical Trends
Category: Writing and Poetry




The People and Their Games

When the crows cluck
The Men all truck
to the Wasteland
All full of luck
And ready to pluck
This Season's tree
Pay the fee
And plant it with Glee.

When the crows smile
The Salesmen on trial
for sellin' their hats
To the kids with their piles
of Garbage and Paint.
Their Hinges play Taint
And sound like Saints
Cause their off their game
And live so tame
Like Lions afraid
to get blamed
For shavin' their beards
Cause they wanna be seers
And look just like Veneers.*

When the crows cry
The babies fly
To their Parents
All full of lies
And ready to pry
Their way
Into
a new Chevy
At the dealer by the levee
And drive away
Man, so Heavy.

The crows wish
They could Anguish
Just like Fish
With their fancy Pens.
All the Hens
Look at the Ken
And wish it would call the Lawmen
So he could court
Each of them.

*(Homage to Bob Dylan (specified so I don't get called out))








Lemon and Cookies

Drink Softly
Bombs dropped and
Dances Planned
Remind you
Spells of Lemon and Steak
Are all the world knows

My Try At Def Poetry (Literally, I did it one day just to see if I could)

Sunlight
So Bright
Makes my Tongue Spin

And Make Fun of
Words
Like Bling Bling
And Ling Ling
Materialism
And Racism
Two words
The world doesn't get
But can't imagine
Itself without

Your Ice
Tightens
And Grasps your Throat
Like Reins
On a Plow Horse
Just a Tool

Like this Poem
Just a Tool

A way to show
All the ****
You're Doing Wrong
Concepts
You can't comprehend
With Words
You don't understand

Just a tool
To write some lyrics
No one Believes
And can't help
But bob their heads to.

I posted these and a few more under the title "Poems Making Fun of You: Anthropological Criticisms of Observed Socio-Philosophical Trends" just to see if I could piss anyone off - and didn't, no one reads poetry (Or at least my ****ty stuff).

And I wanted to post this one:

The clock ticks, Gas
cans empty, Fires
blaze, The
world burns.

The Deontologists laugh, The
Virtuists cry and the
Consequentialists say goodbye.

(To death...)


I added the parenthetical to specify, otherwise it feels like it's too easy to misinterpret. I don't like the parenthetical read, it seems to kill the flow, but it's there as a reminder, and I've been told I did the right thing with it.

I'd really like to get some criticism and/or praise. I get a lot from two buddies of mine, one who's been writing poetry for a long *** time, and another who just started, and already kicks some pretty hefty ***. Hell, you guys might like this one he wrote:

The gun ignites, and
Our minds light, but
His, more than mine.

Might not be right, but it's basically what it was (I'm pulling from memory here, gimme a break), so you can see that I'm not a total island without help, but I'd like some outside criticism.

[JPizzle]

Wow...
I really wish I still remembered predicate logic.

Okay, stem away from rhyme for a while...please. When you limit yourself to such structure, your work becomes forced. If you actually have any interest in poetry, you need to first find your voice and format. You have to gain this familiarity to inherit some authority in your poems. Trust me, right now you're the kid rocking a VL200 and trying to jump on a team practice.

Honestly, I'm still daunted by metered/rhythmic poetry.

[Mike.Sen]

Heh, I've heard that before. The whole "finding your voice" thing is largely analogous to the whole "finding love" thing, you'll know when you find it.

I really didn't rhyme at all for a long long time, but then I tried it one day, and it fit... So I kept doing it. But I can see why it can get amateur, and I suppose you're right. In the "People and their Games" I really did end up trying to force more out then was necessary. But I kept at it because Dylan's done it. Not that published authors are infallible, but (wow, I can't word this without sounding pompous, but that's not my intention, so bare with me) do you see the same problem in "It's alright Ma, I'm only bleeding"?

And I'm at Florida State too. Coincidence? I think not.
Year/Major?
Soph/Phil (for me)

[JPizzle]

I don't think you posted that unless it was the apocalyptic one, in which case I would have to jump on you for the cliches...even though I liked it (given, that's probably because of the moralist theories).

Creative writing/philosophy

[Mike.Sen]

It's a Bob Dylan song. Sorry for the confusion. I heard it right about the time I started writing the People and Their Games and drew some inspirational motivation from it.

http://www.bobdylan.com/songs/its-al...-only-bleeding

And thanks, for the compliment on the apocalyptic one. Heh, that one's got some history. I wrote it up the first time without rhyming, kinda thinking about The Watchmen while I was driving home (yes, I write while I'm driving). Then a few months later when I was driving back up from a second trip home I had somehow bumped into a Hypomanic state (And this is why I believe it): I was driving to get new cigarettes and somehow was just randomly spitting out rhymes in my head as if I had a song stuck in it. I realized after I said the whole "Consequentialists say goodbye" line that I couldn't not write it down. So it stuck.

I'm assuming Creat. Wr./Phi was your double major. It'd be so funny if I've met you, I've been meeting a lot of those lately. But, you could figure out if we'd met from my avvy. It's my real face...


Edit: Not to mention my name is my name: Mike Sendker...

[Tenacious H]

My best friend had to write a couple poems for a class. I just blurted this first one out in a single take, and he wrote it down. It was kind of a weird moment and we were both pretty happy with the result...

Time together goes too fast;
Time apart goes too slow.
Watch the sun rise with me;
Watch the sun set with me.
Together seasons will come;
Together seasons will go.
Rest your feet, stay with me;
Rest your feet, grow old with me.

*I don't know the first thing about poetry, particularly punctuation, but I enjoyed reading this thread so I thought I'd add to it in some way.

[Mike.Sen]

Originally Posted by Tenacious H

*I don't know the first thing about poetry, particularly punctuation, but I enjoyed reading this thread so I thought I'd add to it in some way.

Hehe, I don't know how long you've been doing it, but after about six months I still feel that way.

Not bad poem, either. I liked it. But I, like you, probably don't have a very accurate opinion.

It felt pretty cliche going in, but the final two lines seemed to bring it on home.

[Tenacious H]

Originally Posted by Mike.Sen

It felt pretty cliche going in, but the final two lines seemed to bring it on home.

Thanks for the comment! I agree entirely - I hate cliche and am disgusted that I put it to work here, but I impressed myself with the closing. Maybe I'll take the time to rework it someday.

Here's a prize-winning poem I wrote in 6th grade... wow... almost 10 years ago. I still remember it perfectly for some reason.

Inside the gooey, darkened Hell
Of the deep orange pumpkin shell
A knife pokes through, and daylight too,
To carve a scary face.

[Mike.Sen]

Originally Posted by Tenacious H

Here's a prize-winning poem I wrote in 6th grade... wow... almost 10 years ago. I still remember it perfectly for some reason.

Inside the gooey, darkened Hell
Of the deep orange pumpkin shell
A knife pokes through, and daylight too,
To carve a scary face.

That's better than my 7th Grade respectable poem.

[JPizzle]

Originally Posted by Mike.Sen

It's a Bob Dylan song. Sorry for the confusion. I heard it right about the time I started writing the People and Their Games and drew some inspirational motivation from it.

http://www.bobdylan.com/songs/its-al...-only-bleeding

And thanks, for the compliment on the apocalyptic one. Heh, that one's got some history. I wrote it up the first time without rhyming, kinda thinking about The Watchmen while I was driving home (yes, I write while I'm driving). Then a few months later when I was driving back up from a second trip home I had somehow bumped into a Hypomanic state (And this is why I believe it): I was driving to get new cigarettes and somehow was just randomly spitting out rhymes in my head as if I had a song stuck in it. I realized after I said the whole "Consequentialists say goodbye" line that I couldn't not write it down. So it stuck.

I'm assuming Creat. Wr./Phi was your double major. It'd be so funny if I've met you, I've been meeting a lot of those lately. But, you could figure out if we'd met from my avvy. It's my real face...


Edit: Not to mention my name is my name: Mike Sendker...

Yeah, I guess there are a lot of us out there (Creative Writing/Philosophy). You don't really look familiar. What year are you?

[Mike.Sen]

Sophomore. Junior next semester.

I'm a transfer from USF though. Summer was my first time here.

[JPizzle]

Yeah, we probably wouldn't have classes together; I'm a Senior.

[Eg0 MY Negr0]

Fake Smiles

A Smile not meant
is not well spent
It makes me want
to stick my hand down your throat
and rip out your soul
and watch it wave
in the air
like a flag on a pole.

[GottaLoveEgo's]

Before you read here's a little background as to why i wrote the poem and to explain who is speaking and why.


A girl(i know exit out now ) was an *** to me and ended up breaking it off after a year over what i still dont know what.

I had never said i love you to a girl since 8th grade(i am now a senior) and she was the first I said it to(after her) about a month ago(after dating her for almost a year).

I dont really get why we broke up so i figured i would write about what love is and how it pertained to my situation.

I wanted to say what she did but didnt know how to put it and sound good by saying "this is what you did..blah blah blah" and in turn sound like a whiny *****.

I decided to write in My voice as if im the one that has done all this below and asking the question "why i am the way i am"


I inserted the piece of alternate world because that is in reality what actually happened.

And i put the line of 3rd dimension in to signify reality for us and then what might have happened in a completely different existence.


Constructive critisim or 's would be greatly appreciated.




Explanation


Define Love.
Love is a deep, tender, ineffable feeling of affection and solicitude toward a person, such as that arising from kinship, recognition of attractive qualities, or a sense of underlying oneness.
Love is a feeling of intense desire and attraction toward a person with whom one is disposed to make a pair, the emotion of sex and romance.
If in fact Websters is of correct definition,
Why do i throw these words of intense affection at your feet as easy as speaking my daily profanities?
Why can I not grasp this feeling of deep solicitude when these tender keepsakes flow from my hardened lips.
Tell Me Why.
Why do i poke and pierce your weakening soul at the very whisper of these emotions with this mallet composed of lies and deceit.
Tell Me Why.
I need your explanation for I, I can not find it in these bent and bruised cells derived from the love of my successors.
Maybe in an alternate life I was the one truly broken.
What if I was the one lifted up to my then counter-parts liking then dropped as if I never existed.
What if I was whispered these words of a true definition which can not be accurately described
Only Felt
And still misunderstood.
What if this is the reason for my cruelty.
I was Hurt.
Of course now I am just dreaming. Taking part in my selfishness to explain why I hurt,
why I shrivel,
why I rot.
Why I care not as much for others as I do my own filthy ambitions.
This can be the only explanation of three dimensional sanity.
The only true reason of competence up to societies standards.
This.
This must be why.

[nabbiker3]

i dr seussed this for fun. its kind of a read, but people tell me its a halfway decent read. enjoy

The Man

There once was a man who lived in a box. He slept in his box with an old fox. The man and the fox would always rejoice. Dancing and singing until they both lost their voice. They would run up, and they would run down. They would dance and prance all around town. They’d fly high to the sky then dive into the rivers below. Swimming as fast as a shark, and then turtle speed slow.

But one day up and left the fox. He said he was tired of the man and his box. He told the man he was going to leave. The fox stuck out his thumb and met a trucker named Steve. The fox yelled hey man I needed a change. I’m going to a place that’s secluded and strange. But oh so beautiful landscape and the ladies are nice. Fresh grilled steaks and you’re brew is on ice. Ill give you directions if you’re interested still. It’s a little town in Mass known as The Ville.

The fox and Steve, into the dusk they sped. The fox’s words lingering inside the man’s head. The man felt so alone, so empty, so scared. Then the startled man heard a loud sounding tear. The sky up above had exploded with rage. And this man had been freed from his homemade cage.
Well the man danced and let out a “hobbibly bibly bee.” “This Ville place sounds like the perfect place for me“. So the man picked up his garments and hit the street. With only the clothes on his back and the shoes on his feet. He headed up the road in a new feeling haze. Then lightning struck and the world around him set ablaze. Fire jumped and covered the sky. The man felt it was useless to push on but gave it a try.

The branches lit up and trees fell down. The man was running through a hell that he saw all around. The smoke entered his lungs and the heat burned his eyes. He felt death was creeping on him from all sides. He started to question why he left the safety of his box. He saw sheep running and followed the flocks. The flames scorched the man and he was burnt and black. He stopped for a second and took a look back. He emerged with the flock and looked like a black sheep. The townspeople stared without even a peep. They understood the battles the man had to conquer to stand on the hill. They gathered around him in the place known as The Ville.

The man was close but he wasn’t there yet. He had to cross a bridge to be where he wanted to get. The bridge was rickety broken and old. This man was unsure about the weight it could hold. The water below in the river was flowing, raging and fast. The man felt less secure then a broken arm with no cast. As he stepped upon the wood he felt the bridge shake. The mans head was spinning and his legs would quake. Halfway across the bridge fell from under. The man’s body hit the river with the sound of thunder. The man’s broken body started to float away. The river was his master and the man had to obey.

He tried to open his mouth to scream for someone. But he could neither be heard nor seen over the river and the blinding sun. The man desperately reached out for anything to grab. But every branch he grabbed would cut or stab. The man closed his eyes because he felt all hope was lost. Just then a sharp pain registered in his head from a rope that had been tossed.

For on the side of the river was that sly old fox. Being helped by his friends the baboon and the crocs. The baboon was in the tree holding that rope tight. While the crocodiles were swimming out to the man faster than the speed of light. They got to the man and helped him out quick. They then played doctor to check to see if the man was sick. The man was lucky to be alive. The fox with a smile said “that was a terrible dive” The man smiled back and said “yeah you’re right, this whole trip has been quite a fright.” The fox and the man walked back to town. The stories of the man were told and people came from all around.

The man made money to write down his tales. And he could live happy from all his sales. The fox and the man had a new house. They sat cozier than a warm sock on a mouse. They traded stories and heard what each had survived. Each one silently thanking the lord kept them alive. They both knew that life could be hell. But if you push through it life will prosper, and you will have a story to tell.

[FreshPooky]

Prose poetry, every critics nightmare

[mulletmadness]

"A Wish Come True"

I killed my mother, but I didn't cry.
It coiled my stomach, my throat dry.
She came home early, only a small bite.
I couldn't ignore it, she'd be one by night.
The repeated mantra, ruthless, inhumane:
Cut off the head, or destroy the brain.
Her blood laid on the sheets like a stain on a shirt.
She was napping, I whispered, "It won't hurt."
Dizziness, I shook, hard to get a handle.
Her blood smelled warm, pervasive like the scent of a candle.
Dad never came back, I'm grateful for that.
I had already ended one life, crushed like a gnat.
I looked outside, I didn't see God.
Only Zombies traversing the sod.
I locked the doors, each window boarded with a plank.
Their smell drifted in, decaying and rank.
I would try to resist Death's puckered lips.
But how can you survive a zombie apocalypse?
I reached for my "Bible", always at my side:
A copy of Max Brooks' The Zombie Survival Guide.
Its wrinkled pages are a fire in the bleakness:
life-affirming, thawing, erasing all weakness.
Now all my friends and schooling seem petty.
I've got a new friend, her name is Machete.
Discard your "modern" self, austere, melodramatic;
Survival, instincts return as a semi-automatic.
Limit your group to trusted friends three to five.
Alertness is a necessity, it will keep you alive.
Don't use anything loud, with gas; they'll hear you.
A bike is the best for traveling where you want to.
Avoid the hospital, police station, and church,
for that is where you'll find people, and zombies will lurch!
Escaping is best, so from the city you must fly.
You can't be Rambo, unless you want to die.
Living will not be an easy task won.
Be prepared for a loss, leave a bullet in your gun.
I will move on, my group is full.
I'll keep running, chased by the Bull.
Someday either us or them will go extinct.
Maybe it's better that way, but I try not to think.

-John Zydowicz, Zombie Enthusiast


If you don't find this funny, then you probably haven't read anything by Max Brooks. It is supposed to be dark humor, and the traditional rhyme scheme (I'm hoping) will sound ridiculous.

I LOOOOVE zombies.

I'll try to post some comments on other people's work soon

[CartonRTL]

I usually don't post my **** on the internet, but I figured I'd put this one up. No title yet.


Sitting in a bookstore
on a Friday evening,
I am reading poetry
in a large chair where
I could imagine spending
the rest if my life

When from some distant corner
I hear a child,
a boy calling out. Daddy?
Daddy where are you?
His desire for a firm hand
a warm touch
to keep him safe
in a place such as this,
as I call out to the poet,
Where are you?

[fieryfizzion213]

Originally Posted by CartonRTL

Sitting in a bookstore
on a Friday evening,
I am reading poetry
in a large chair where
I could imagine spending
the rest if my life

When from some distant corner
I hear a child,
a boy calling out. Daddy?
Daddy where are you?
His desire for a firm hand
a warm touch
to keep him safe
in a place such as this,
as I call out to the poet,
Where are you?

I liked it. I think it's kind of ambiguous, though. I get that some poets prefer their works to be that way, but... I don't know. I'm not sure if my interpretation is correct, but I thought that it's just you at a younger age when you were more talented with poetry? I don't know.

Anyway, I'm glad to see that this thread is still alive... I'm eager to share some of my own stuff. lol. Here's one that I finished writing recently. I just posted it on my blog, which I've sort of been trying to revive as a place for me to update weekly or bi-weekly with poems that I'm willing to share. So, yeah. I updated yesterday and had this poem in it:

I used to know what it meant
to self-preserve from love,
to stop a fool from being sent
to a world where no heart moves.

I never used to speak out
in fear of being broken;
and I always used to doubt
if love were ever spoken.

That prison in which I stayed,
I stayed in with no route;
no planned escape had I made
to be free and to break out.

But somehow my walls broke down,
leaving me defenseless,
allowing me to begin
a new life in new darkness.

This new sadness is too deep
for slight smiles to conceal--
too down deep, even, to reap--
smiles, in fact, feed its appeal.

You're the one for me to blame,
though hate can't love always;
I'll both hate and love in shame,
but it must not tilt one way.

If anyone's interested in checking out my blog, the url's http://fieryfizzion213.wordpress.com.