Poems... It's your turn!

[F.Chit]

Good morning, Kitosdad.
Thanks for your sarcasm :)
I didn’t try to criticize you. No. I won’t dare. Ever.
“I was trying to convey the frustration of the people and of the soldiers, to the attitude of their governments, appearing blind to just how their decisions were affecting the people” you said. But my idea is just different. I write about people who have despaired because they are weak. Too weak to do anything with their lives. But not because of government or something. This weakness comes straight from their hearts. And my so-called poem is a kind of appeal.
Well… Never mind…

[Kitosdad]

F.Chit, please, I was not being sarcastic, and the fact that I was moved to penning my pathetic poem ( compared to yours )was that yours had brought me around to thinking the same way.

I am sorry if you feel offended. That was certainly not my intent.

Perhaps it's better that I stifle my imagination, and stick to editing essays.

Kitosdad.
_________________
Keep it simple ... Keep it interesting.

[Shyone]

Melodies

The harp called soul
Is a tricky instrument to play.
Every change of mood
Requires new tuning.
From a chorus of joy
To a chord of mourning
In a heartbeat.

My favorite place to play
Is in the woods,
Where the harmony of nature
Is leading my hands,
No change of mood,
Only pleasure.

These tunes are joyful
Like the singing of birds,
The humming of bees,
The chirping of insects
The rustling of leaves
And the swaying of grass
In a summer breeze.

There are other places
Where I don't like to go
Where every note
Is hurt and pain
Crying and moaning.
I go there anyway
Because sometimes I think
My tune might make a change

I like to go to places
Where I find other instruments
Each one of them soulful
Playing an individual tune
When we play together
Each its own melody
Then my soul rejoices
In perfect harmony
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No comment

[F.Chit]

to Kitosdad: I'm not offended!! Not at all. Well... not now)) I’m really flattered by your attention. Pleased to know that someone reads my rubbish.

[F.Chit]

to Shyone: Thanks for your reply :) Melodies of the soul are really charming if you can hear them.

[F.Chit]

The Crime

I close my eyes to find the way. I won’t get better.
My life is going to the dogs. But does it matter?
Embarrassed glance is left. You’ll never join me.
Although years ago you did enjoy me.

That freakish murder made the picture fuzzy.
Because of blood on palms I’m getting really buzzy.

Euphoria… Being overtaken by a bliss
I ask you not to hug and not to kiss.
I’ll run away on saddled lightning horse.
So please, get rid of decomposing corpse.

[Akinniyi Akeem]

to kito's dad:I wrote the poem. Would like to hear your views on it.

[Akinniyi Akeem]

to shyone:Fantastic. A good picture of what the sweet charms of solitude could do. I like the end has it paints the beauty that differences bring.

[Prezbucky]

okay:

Morning's sun begins the day
And brings the squirrels out to play:
Rodent eyes and bushy tail,
The search for acorns will never fail.

But beware the blind squirrel:
You'll think he hasn't a clue
On how to make it through.
While he fumbles about
With sightless troubles that seem to mount.
But he has a third eye, I swear:
The blind squirrel always finds the nut,
So beware!
_________________
Billie Jean is not my lover. Hee.

[Prezbucky]

The greatest American poet is (was) Robert Frost. That man knew, KNEW, how to end a poem. Some of his endings:

-- From "Mending Wall"
He will not go behind his father's saying,
And he likes having thought of it so well
He says again, "Good fences make good neighbors."

--From "The Road Not Taken"
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood and I --
I took the one less travelled by,
And that has made all the difference.

-- From "Desert Places"
They cannot scare me with their empty spaces
Between stars -- on stars where no human race is
I have it in me so much nearer home
To scare myself with my own desert places.

--From "Tree At My Window"
That day she put our heads together,
Fate had her imagination about her,
Your head so much concerned with outer,
Mine with inner, weather.

-- From "Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening"
The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

--From "After Apple-Picking"
Were he not gone,
The woodchuck would say whether it's like his
Long sleep, as I describe its coming on,
Or just some human sleep.

Frost was America's best, IMO.
_________________
Billie Jean is not my lover. Hee.

[Prezbucky]

Here's another Whitman parody.. Sandburg too. I think that free verse is just half-baked note-taking... mostly, anyway. It takes talent to be both deep and to rhyme (or at least to show a sense of rhythm)... so in my opinion, free-versers like Whitman, Sandburg and Willy C. Williams are vastly overrated. This is a parody of their style(s):

Dirt
Is
Dirty
Dirt is
brown
It is cool against my fingers.
Wow, dirt is cool.

Flowers ooze warmth
Tell them to talk to you
and
theywill.

Pigs grunt
Can they do
Anything else

Grass is green
Because it is green
Do you doubt its greenness?

I like wheat
(yes, that's the poem. Are you not entertained?!)

This neither rhymes
Nor makes sense
Just like a person sitting in a dirt

I
talk to wenches who cook dinner
dinneryumyumyum
I talk to wenches who cook dinneryum

Yo, lady, here's your portrait:
skin
make-uphair
silk stockings
petals beautifuler than honey
a face like
a torch
Dutch maiden,
Speak Deutsch to me
And I will
eat your cheese.
filthiness not
lady
tree
green
branch
ground
squirrel furry
fury

O general, my general!
I didn't swab the deck
Even though you're dead, please don't kill me!
O general, my general,
I couldn't rhyme my way out of a rap written for
Four-year-olds.
So I abstain from rhyming, making sense or keeping
any
rhythm whatsoever.
Just read this worthless crap and be happy.
Cal
l
It poetry and some might believe you!

O general, o ghost,
We need to talk about my lawn.
You see, I like to think of the blades as leaves,
And though thou art dead and thus ethereal,
I could use a hand to talk about them, entertaining-like,
Because grass gets a bad rap and it don't deserve no blame
You see, I like to sit my sorry self down on my lawn and fondle the grass
I gets to thinkin' I and this here grass is one person, one thing
They can feel my heartbeat and I can observe the photosainthisis as it happens
Why should I write a critically acclaimed (thick critics) poem about it...
A poem that doesn't rhyme, isn't deep (gibberish basically) and which really is just a vessel for my phrase-turnin' ability (admittedly, Whitman did have that gift)?
Well who knows?

Let's start like this:

Behold this leaf of grass on which I sit and with which I share all sharing, sharingness, sharacity which makes you blush
Blush shall I do too, green as green and the green in my soul is your soul too,
And WHOA I can just spout this here gobbledygook and sell it!

Real poetry be damned, suckers!

hehe
_________________
Billie Jean is not my lover. Hee.

[Kitosdad]

This is a song by Harry Chapin. If you listen to it, and you have a heart, then I defy you not to cry. It portrays a new-born baby, whose Mother has given birth to triplets in the desert and is unable to cope alone. Poetry in it's sheer simplicity.

I am born today, the sun burns it's promise in my eyes;
Mama strikes me, and I draw a breath and cry.
Above me a cloud softly tumbles through the sky;
I am glad, to be alive.

It is my seventh day, I taste the hunger and I cry;
My brother and sister cling to Mama's side.
She squeezes her breast, but it has nothing to provide;
Someone weeps, I fall asleep.

It's twenty days today, Mama does not hold me any more;
I open my mouth but I am too weak to cry.
Above me a bird slowly crawls across the sky;
Why is there nothing now to do, but die?
_________________
Keep it simple ... Keep it interesting.

[Kitosdad]

[Kitosdad]

The Fatherless Boy.

He's the little boy who Santa Claus forgot ,
Goodness knows he didn't want a lot.
He wrote away to Santa, for some soldiers and a gun,
It broke his little heart when he found they hadn't come.
Oh how he envies other girls and boys,
Then wanders home to last years broken toys.
I'm so sorry for that little laddie,
Cos' he doesn't have a Daddy,
He's the little boy, that Santa Claus forgot .
_________________
Keep it simple ... Keep it interesting.

[Akinniyi Akeem]

the rhymes are apt and he softness of the words can break the meanest of hearts. the simplicity is perfect.