Inspired by the poetry thread..submit your own poetry!

Cafe Society
1

Inspired by one of my favorite books, Redwall by Brian Jacques
I Am That Is

In The Throes of Madness
by Pixiekitten Location: Your Imagination
Age: 25 Sex : F
previous entry : Stalked by a Hottie next entry: Sex

I Am That Is…Mathias The Warrior of Redwall 6/2/2002
I am that is,proclaimed Martin the warrior
I am that is,shouted Mathias the warrior

Died,with blood on the sword that proclaimed I am that is,

Martin defended Redwall Abbey,his holy home

Mathias escaped a genocide to make Redwall his holy home

Chosen by Martin to defend those scarlet stone walls

Mathias is what shall be

Defending the great stone house from all who seek to enter its gates with evil on their minds

Befriended by a hare,the shrews and the black-capped sparrows

Mathias is the defender of Redwall,with his lovely mouseling bride Cornflower,standing behind him with grace,courage and pride

His son,Mattimeo,shall carry on the legacy of he who is

The Defender of Redwall Abbey

Not a churchmouse nor an abbot or brother monk is he,cloaked in a deepest robe of brown,the habit of those who give their life in service to He Who Is

Mathias,warrior of Redwall,standing proud and true till that day shall come when he shall annoint his young song Mattimeo with the sword that proclaims I Am That Is and Mattimeo,taking up the sword,shall call out “REDWALL” as his battle cry and defend his holy home for Redwall,for Martin and Mathias his father

Redwall

Holy redstone house

Lights are on, but nobody’s home

You stare into her eyes and they are like the eyes of a dead fish,cold,empty
The lights are on but nobody’s home

The harsh highs and Death Valley lows have stripped her of her soul

Of everything that used to be a part of her

Her mind is gone,fried beyond recognizing

She can’t think but of one thing…her next fix

It’s all about getting that fix and getting to feel that euphoria again,like riding a rollercoaster blindfolded in the dark

But when it’s all over,she’s alone again,trembling in the shadows,shivering as though a Montana winter wind is whipping her body raw

She’ll do anything to get that fix…to feel that pinch of a needle puncturing her already-scarred and tortured veins again

Injecting that sweet warmth that floods her body like a chemical orgasm

The lights are on…but nobody’s home

Nobody can save her from herself and there she’ll be,alone again without a prayer

Without a friend

Without a life

THe lights are on…but not for long

Because there isn’t anybody home

MetalMaven

2

Dammit, preview is my friend! :smack:

MetalMaven

3

Ass is where it’s at.
Asses wear its hat.
Asshat.

4

Sonnet written to a doner kebab*

Oh choicest cut of fresh-roast new-born lamb
Plucked from gambolling in the springtime field,
Thy juices sweet as honey that fed Adam
In Eden. Firm, and yet thy flesh doth yield.
Thy pitta, sweet as manna that did fall
On Israelites in desert exodus,
Like lover’s lips that parted in a thrall
Of passion, glistening with flecks of lust:
Shows em’rald lettuce; crimson tomato sliced,
Carressed by chilli and garlic mayonnaise
Rustic cabbage, pickled peppers diced,
Thy aroma like a prayer our Lord to praise.
Thou art a ransom more than kings may earn.
So why then makest thou my bottom burn?
*That’s “gyro” to you yank-types.

5

On the occasion of my father’s stroke

I’m writing speeches for my father’s wake,
deciding how I’ll hold my hands and head
while speaking calmly of the newly dead.
Enunciating grief without mistakes.
I will not pull away if strangers break
my spine in crushing hugs, attempt to thread
their fingers through my own. I will not dread
their platitudes or pity, and will make
myself a smiling puppet. Casseroles
will bring me solace. I will never cry
in public, nor permit my hands to tremble,
nor fuss when dripping calla lily bowls
leave lasting rings on the piano. I
will be as still as that man I resemble.

6

That’s lovely, JS. Thanks for sharing it.

7

Thanks. I think I killed the thread, though. Ack.

Julie

8

Why Compete?

I often say I’m no Yeats or Eliot or Emerson.
Of course I’m not. The paths I travel
Are already well worn by their trampling feet.
Every day Yeats bellows from Ireland, screaming at me
About my misuse of youth while he shows off
How well he wears time. Eliot grabs my hair
And thrusts my face in the muddy ash of his Wasteland,
While Emerson raves in my ear about his dream
Of the dead city. They are too strong.
I can’t match their fortitude.
Their niches are carved of alabaster,
Their places in time guaranteed by the worship
Of the aged professor.
I could try to steal their beauty, try to take what was
Theirs even before my bloody entrance on the stage,
But I would will only succeed in burying myself
Beneath the rubble of a second Troy.

Instead I shall carve my own image in the stone with
My iron will. I will take what they couldn’t
And build myself a place in the desert
High above the standing trunks of Ozymandias.
I will baffle the professor with its complexity,
Confuse the scholars with its imagery,
And dumbfound the engineer with its architecture.
The symbolic maelstrom will unleash itself
Upon their ancient constructions,
And I will laugh from on high as Emerson’s dead city
Crumbles, snicker as Eliot sinks to his death in his
Self-made Armageddon, and mock Yeats
As he runs madly through the desert, naked and old,
Vainly attempting to embrace the loving mirage
Of a young Maud Gonne.

In Memory of John Coltraine (1926-1967)

The day is still young and tired;
Not too loud Johnny, the city is still asleep.
His jazz is sweet to me
As I stare at
The Yankee Candle matchbox,
His saxophone singing
Of better days;
Of coffee shops
And shoe shines
For a quarter.
The piano echoes his sympathies.
The ivory keys whisper to me
About standing on a busy street corner
In the rain
Waiting for Gypsy Rose
To step out of a black cab
In a white dress,
Asking if I’ve waited long.
The cymbals set the stage,
Reminding me of a day
When the musician ruled the earth.
I never met Mr. Coltraine;
I would have loved to have been the one
To shine his shoes.

	Paint Ball

I walked off the battlefield
Having been shot in the face,
Purple blood marring my skin
Like a badge given for failure.
Comrades soon followed.
Head wound back wound
Face wound head wound
“Fucking ‘A’ I was shot in the ear!”

Our flag was taken,
The cheer of victory
Blinding observers
From the sights and sounds of war:
The retorts of gun fire
The buzzing of flies
And the lamentation for the dead.

9

I’d contribute, but I haven’t completed any poems since the last time a poetry posting thread came up.

Of course, I’ve almost finished my first draft of a long, long poem, but first drafts don’t count :slight_smile:

10

I always feel inferior when posting to threads such as these, but I’ll go ahead and give it a try.

Heroes

You fought the fight for so many years
Jumped the hurdles and faced your fears
You lived a life to be reviewed with pride
Stayed the course and took it in stride

You tried to veil your strength with humility
But became the ideal illustration of stability
You did so many things I wished I could do
I couldn’t hide my admiration for you

When I said you were my hero you laughed a bit
And shook your head, not believing it
You couldn’t imagine you’d done anything great
Just played the cards dealt to you by fate

I only revealed what I knew to be true
You inspired me, I looked up to you
I had a question before your time came to go
Just one simple thing I’d always wanted to know

Who could someone of your regard admire
What impressive attributes must you require
So when I asked you who your hero could be
Imagine my surprise when you said it was me

11

Why I Watch for the Whales off Cape Disappointment

My reasons are as simple
as weight. Simply fear
relative to size.
But I won’t talk equations

And I will not echo
the Humpbacks’ long death song.
That is too easy a grief.

Instead I’ll show you
a black shadow skimming,
the need to kill or be swallowed,
a truth carved like scrimshaw
in the baleen bone
between my breasts.

Call me Jonah instead.
I have walked the wide rib
of the whale and emerged
on this haunted curve,
this other coast.

Yes, I have known continents
their names rise on the waves
like anthems:
Finback, Sei, Great Blue.

I have slid back into the the sea,
split by scalloped flukes,
the krill clinging
to my hair.

It’s a small story now.
I sit on the grey lip
of the shore, chart the blind
migrations in my own life.

I am, after all,
a woman swallowed whole,
She, whose obsession can be soothed
by the answering chord of his
deep blues.

She who, guided here,
drags these elegies,
these whale poems,
like huge grey bones
to an empty beach.

  • koeeoaddi
12

JSGoddess, your poem brought tears to my eyes. Beautiful.

Everyone else’s are cool, too, but that one really moved me.

13

Wow…good one JS.:slight_smile:

Every Child is Broken

*Every child is broken

We cannot be made whole

Our spirit crushed,turned to mush,what are we supposed to do?

Unable to cope with the outside world

Unwilling to deal with the world within

Inwardly scared,outwardly defiant

The embers are smouldering,but dying in the soul

The fire has gone out of the eyes

The soul unable to fight,unstable like a three-legged chair

Thrust into a world we do not yet understand

Longing for the childhood we were denied

Looking for the missing pieces

Still searching for salvation

Every child is broken

And cannot be made whole

Still we seek a fullness that cannot be measured

or attained with wealth and material goods

We seek that which is unknowable,unreachable,unable to be fulfilled

A secret desire…to be made whole once more *
MetalMaven

14

Metal, Koe, good ones!

Gorilla gorilla gorilla
tie you up bash your old man to a pillar
jungle love maybe
kill your baby
hairiest motherfucker savage ass killer.

Pulling eighty g’s in a cube box
wife and kids in a circle around me like a clock
doin time for my man
synergistic elan
software architecture plans to make the colosseum look like rocks.

Chimp flinging punks and serfs with turds
Holding the password from programmers and eunuchs nerds
Light of the Lord we pay our dues
not holy enough yet in performance reviews
He’s got my back he’s the shepherd of the herd.

Hot sluts in my bed commence to praise me
If it wasn’t for my man she’d be pushing up daisies
Trollin’ in his cave till all the cops’ feet are raw
Hackin and stayin one step ahead of the cyber-law
Hip hop saint the press and the punks think he’s crazy.

Sing the song motherfucker for this one red cent
Welcome back, play again like we taught you it pays the rent
Machine growing bigger and bigger
Camera eye watching you like a trigger
But it’ll never scope my heart’s anarchistic intent.

15

Writing poetry is something you should stop before the age of 25. At that point you should burn all the evidence. Here’s one that escaped that fate, kind of florid …

When a sullen sun devours the sky
And sets aflame an Earth boiled dry
When all life’s lived and surely dead
Man’s breathed his last and said all’s said
I might suppose, but who can say
My love will die, will die that day

When the clock chimes at this time’s end
No time to spare, no time to spend
If years wipe clean and start anew
Nothing’s achieved and all’s to do
I might suppose, but who can say
I’ll love again, again that day

If all skies turn and all fall down
The street’s a shatter and raze the town
If silence falls on closing eyes
Life’s leaving hush on wings and flies
I might suppose, but who can say
My love goes on despite that day.

16

Gone

The world lost someone special tonight
Gone is the light
Her love brought
Gone is the laughter
That danced in her eyes
Gone is the smile
That hid her pain
Gone is the kindness
She showed to others
Gone is the sound of her voice
That bestowed words of support
Gone is my friend
Whom I loved
But I will never forget
The times we shared
When we giggled and whispered
Secrets and dreams galore
Times of laughter
Times of tears
Times of joy
Times of fear
All will be remembered
Gone will never be
My memories of her
She is gone
But not forgotten


I debated on whether or not I wanted to post anything I wrote here but decided to take the plunge. This one was written after a friend of 15 years died of cancer.
17

Wow Ludo…not sure what yours is about but I like it…I think.

Ela–way to write from the heart. That’s what poetry is all about, after all. You write what you know.
Asian Slut

Asian slut,that’s what you are

A husband-stealing little whore

We’re not good enough,so cut us out of his life

His wife was in the way,not that it mattered to you

You fucked him and had his half-white baby,who’s better than all of us

You told him to murder his wife…so what if she had cancer anyway?

You told him to pull the plug,or maybe he did it on his own

So he’d be free to marry you

Elitist

That’s what you are,learn to speak the language for Chrissakes!

I can’t understand you through your mushmouth half-English with that damn dialect

You and your stupid kids…treat us like dirt or garbage Which is what we are to you,poverty stricken as we are

We don’t wear clothes once then toss them out the way you do

We know the value of a dollar

We don’t think Cambodian culture is the best in the world

Though I know you do

We aren’t garbage,we aren’t trash,we aren’t as bad as you seem to think we are

Husbandstealing slut,little asian whore

That’s what you are

At least I have pride and dignity and respect for marriage vows

I wish you had what I had

What I lack in money and possesions

I make up for in spirit and character,you stupid asian whore
That one was written shortly after his death, something I almost printed out and stuck in his casket for Wifey #2 to find. I am really glad I didn’t, because it would’ve really upset her to know I felt that way about her at that time.
Turn the radio UP!

Barry Manilow
Golden god of Adult Contemporary Music

Turn the radio up,it’s “Weekends in New England”

The melody’s playing all over town,no blues comin’ round

I hear the harmony and I sing along,singing at the top of my lungs

Every time I hear your voice,my blues just drift

Cannot stay no more when you begin to shift and shift

Into “Copacabana” or “I Sing the Songs(That make the whole world sing)”

You can brighten my day with just one note,don’tcha know

Oh Barry

I think I’m in love

(Sssh…don’t tell my husband…he’ll get jealous.:))

Turn the radio up

It looks like we made it,all these years you’ve carried me through

WHen I was down,you brought me up

When I was sad you made me glad

So sing on,golden boy,and play that piano right

Don’t turn t he radio off,turn the radio up

Barry’s on!
Yes…alright…I confess. I think Barry Manilow is a hottie.:smiley:
MetalMaven

18

Thanks, Maven, and I agree whole-heartedly. I never make a conscious effort to sit down and write poetry. It either flows out on it’s own or it doesn’t. I have others. Some sappy, some strange, some disturbing and one that is definitely not appropriate to post here. I think writing is a great way to release pent up emotions.

19

I fell overboard today.
I float here in the sea.
I watch the clouds go drifting by
and wish they’d carry me.

20

OH, INNER CHILD
Oh, inner child, where are you now?
Why can’t I find you? Please show me how.
If I look into my mind, and go back in time,
will you be there, waiting for me?

Are you sitting on the curb, with your chin in your hand?
Are you waiting for me…to show you the plan?

How do we do it?
I’ll show you the way.
Where are we going?
Is it somewhere to play?

Yes, we can laugh and play and watch clouds go by…
and, if something hurts us, it’s ok to cry.

We’re allowed to be children, and have hopeful dreams…
No fear, and no beatings…or pain till you scream.

I can’t stop the pain that you used to go through,
But, I can keep ANYONE from ever hurting you.

I will hold you, and love you like you never had,
and, I’ll tell you you’re good, and that I’m so glad…
that you’re coming with me…HURRY !! Let’s pack…
you can take all you want to…I’ve got a big sack.

Let’s take hope and laughter, and oh, don’t forget!
All the joy that you wanted…and never did get.

Put them all in together, and now, we should go…
we have a long journey, and the start might be slow.

But, I’m in no hurry, take all the time you need,
there’s really no rush, we dont need to speed.

Let’s journey together, and leave this sad place…
let’s go back to our future…
Hey!! Wanna race??

Jeanette K /1991