5 minute poetry

[Funka Genocide]

so it's been one lonely night
before a hundred others
so your hope gives way to fright
while the paranoia smothers

so it seems we often fight
and lose our precious days
so this poem really bites
and you prob'ly think I'm gay

so I always think I'm right
but once just make it true
it's going to be all right
'cause I'm in love with you

[Nevrmore]

I wish I could post my own thread, since it seems like poems in this one don't really get appreciated, but oh well. Here's one I wrote a couple months ago.

Who Am I?

I fill your lands with smoke so black
From my fiery, skyward attack
Kill your children and mar your sod
But I am not your spiteful God
So who am I?

I eat away your fearful soul
While mine remains black as charcoal
In fiery lair, my lion's den
Yet I am not the feared Satan
So who am I?

I strike down all whom I oppose
With great contempt and thunderbolt
When angered so, escape's no use
And I am not Chrono's son, Zeus
So who am I?

With mighty hammer, I rain down
Legend's warrior of thund'rous sound
I ‘ll strike you down with no remorse
Only I'm not Thor, god of Norse
So who am I?

So who am I?
Who fills your lands with fire and smoke?
Blackens your soul from wishes smote?
Crushes with contempt of thunderbolt?
Sinks your soul when it could float?

Who am I?
Crushes the church, burns the steeple
Laughs at opponents’ attempts, so feeble
Shuns all of those with weakened will?
The answer's simple, I am people.

I am people.

[Funka Genocide]

something I've learned about poetry over the few years I've been writing it is that appreciation is a simple, far off and unnecessary dream. Poetic appreciation is such an individual concept that not even professional critics have any universal understanding of it, they simply call one particular linguistic aesthetic "good" and try to justify this preference to themselves by citing tradition and a myriad different rules of construction and metaphor.

The point is, write poetry for yourself, not for anyone's adoration or appreciation. It will take a lot of hard and thankless work before it even has a chance of reaching a wider audience than a few faceless denizens of an internet forum, so I would suggest you find the simple joy of poetry for it's own sake.

I will admit that this particular venue has grown somewhat stagnant, I remember the days when more people were interested in this thread and there were updates daily, many of which were my own. But now, in this quieter state, it still serves its same purpose, it lets you get the poetry from your mind and onto this open forum. Someone will read it and through that simple act, they appreciate it even if it is so very slight and discrete a thing as to be unknown.


I guess all I want to say is keep writing poetry even if it seems no one is listening, because someone will if you just keep trying.

[The Kneumatic Pnight]

I don't suppose you understand
The majesty before me?
The shocking, massive thrust of force;
The light, the sound, the music...

and it goes down
Layer upon layer.

An infinite regression of elemental law.
The patterns in the timeless grasp
Of pure ineffability.

Watching them align...
Layer upon layer.

[BlackMageGirl!]

It's more like life got in the way, Funka G. =D

"That it be."

I wander 'round the wellspring
Pelter rain shields my steps
And I wondered whispering
where the happiness went.

Not a hole inside my rages
But of more room there to fill
And less left to written pages
(More spent on speaking thrills)

What this twirl, Sweet rain peal
And inside of me I find something real
How can all of the good be dethroned
When I hear such warmth in these stones?

So water pitter patter
And it didn't matter
To where I walked
And wence such audacity
Of my wellbeing stalked

"So how can't happy see
And wonder they to me.
Love rain and sun? Yes, so free
I found of mine, let it be..."

[RaiRai]

Such determination
for a pathetic feeble thing
watch the demonstration
where I pull each string
Think you make the choices?
Well my friend, you're wrong
I've spoken all the voices
I've been them all along
So when you stop to wonder
about each days events
take a moment to ponder
as I put in my two cents
for I am all the faces
wittness to all your lies
I am without traces
as I see through many eyes.

[Fuzzydoom]

Potential

I am a potential
a man-shaped glob of endless opportunities
a beast that devours experience, constantly emulating and incorporating

I am a youth of America
a son of the business class whose business encompasses the world
expected to build upon myself, to construct from my experiences a man worth being
a life worth living, but how can one build without plans
without a foundation there is no structure, without a structure there can be no personality
without personality there can be no self

I am a decision waiting to be made
a choice whose repercussions will reverberate throughout my life
there will always be the one who lingers behind
who whispers to me in the dead of night
“what if, what if?” he will say
his voice will let me know the next night every mistake I make
too late to ever do any good, too late to ever take a different step
and I will say nothing because there is nothing to say

I am not aware of the correct decisions
I am not sure there are correct decisions
I am not going to change who I am or will be, solely on “What if?”

I am both old and new. The same, yet different. I am what I am, as are all those who came before me
As are all those who are yet to come

[Lycanthrope]

Confusion

Its strange for a man to doubt his dreams
This situation found,
Once sent, one thousand lonely prayers
To find their answer imminent... unsure.
So first we turn our eyes to HER:
Her flowing hair, of liquid brass
Eyes of saphire with keen intent
and a longing most familiar to my own
And yet, though features kind and fair,
I seem to pull away
And when your voice gives words
words in semi-frantic rush
--Which gives credence to the thought
that your intentions lay on, of all things, me--
your words find my ears... cold.
Perhaps I pull away for fear
Fear that one thousand answered prayers
might prove less worth than what is spent
Or perhaps this uninspired charade
is but, for me, another miss
though near, to my heart.

[Selfish]

The wind had been her lover.

He had played with her hair and had toyed with her skirt. Now he was panting alongside her brisk walk, snatching at her clothes gently as he followed her to her workplace.

How he giggled! She flashed a solitary smile, and then hid her thrilling deep within her heart.

Pools of water soaked the soccer field, and everywhere she saw his prints; the ridges of his fingers made the malleable liquid form perfectly to his unique and fluid whorls.

Ever he gave. He offered himself today wildly, but to her sometimes he would lick the glowing salty sweat off her brow. Heaven itself might feel like that. Today he threw himself into her seduction, other days he merely coaxed the warmest breaths down her neck, kissing her earlobes.
A broken shopping bag sporting a familiar logo rose under the Wind`s volition, amusing her twinkling eye. He passed the bag from one hand to the other, pretending to juggle it precariously only to skilfully hurl it up as a kite. Tilting his hand and smacking it hard, the bag nestled as if by itself atop an evergreen.
She shook her head. As a mortal, she didn`t need to understand his every action.

A browned leaf circled up, and then dropped on a ruffled sheet of water. The sight of this jogged a memory; driving rain, clouds, funnel... Yes, he gave so freely, yet he was untrainable.
A lowly being such as she could not plead with him to stop the destruction, to halt his missions. He had no heart that poured forth blood - no knowledge of pain.
AS was beyond her ken the thrill of unadulterated freedom to fly across the planet, so his mind was stunted by his noncoporeal nature. He knew only his play, and not its consequences. He knew his power, not the suffering it sometimes caused.

A licking breeze could cumulate into the orgasmic thunderstorm or raging tornado. His passions were unchecked, as was his displays of power. Singlehandedly he had carved out faces of unnamed cliffs, and brought waves to their destinies. His unblinking eyes had pulled forth knowledge of smootness, of sheerness. With his nerveless hands did he shape God`s creation.

Today though...today he chanced upon this tiny mortal walking to work, and had roused in her a smile. She was won to him that day, forgetting a moment his strength and capriciousness.
This day, he merely loved and toyed. For one day, the fingerprints of the wind were lightly on the land.

******
A friend of mine told me that I should write vanilla erotica after reading this. LOL - what a sweet lady.

[Funka Genocide]

why do men
run towards
the open ends
of closing wars

and why the pain
so fast endured
what is gained
when so inured

when granted are
no honesties
oh so far
from amnesty

bluster fools
oh ever taut
the dimming rules
for which we fought

the clever dooms
by simple hands
as heaven looms
between the sands