Escape from Elba

Literature => Poetry => Topic started by: Administrator on July 30, 2018, 12:16:42 PM

Title: Poetry
Post by: Administrator on July 30, 2018, 12:16:42 PM
Share and discuss
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: barton on July 30, 2018, 03:33:40 PM
 the Cambridge ladies do not care, above
Cambridge if sometimes in its box of
sky lavender and cornerless, the
moon rattles like a fragment of angry candy


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: FlyingVProd on July 30, 2018, 04:31:32 PM
Art 
By Herman Melville
 
In placid hours well-pleased we dream
Of many a brave unbodied scheme.
But form to lend, pulsed life create,
What unlike things must meet and mate:
A flame to melt--a wind to freeze;
Sad patience--joyous energies;
Humility--yet pride and scorn;
Instinct and study; love and hate;
Audacity--reverence. These must mate,
And fuse with Jacob's mystic heart,
To wrestle with the angel--Art.

----

Salute,

Tony V.
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Cornelius II on August 03, 2018, 09:54:25 AM
I Am Aged

I am aged, by common definition I suppose:
steely grey hair, fringed 'round a bald pate,
running to curls in back; I wish it were snowy white.

I get along with a cane, take Tylenol regularly,
-- arthritis is a bitch -- helped along internally now
by pacemaker and four cardiac stents.

My hearing is shot, but my eyes are still perfect,
courtesy of the cataract operation of course, but
still seeing keenly, as young as ever, reality in all its wonder.

I have lived through an Age -- of benevolent Government --
from FDR onward: New Deal, Fair Deal, Great Society;
and now see its demise, in the new administration.

So my children will live with it, my grandchildren normalize it,
as times have changed forever, and I will become
a crotchety Ancient, remembering, complaining,
fulfilling my role.

Crp
Dec 21, 2017
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: ffleate on August 07, 2018, 08:13:06 PM
The Meat in the Middle of the 8 Billion Year Thick Sandwich
with a nice glass of Malbec


“The earth” he said “is 4 billion years old”.
We sat at a table for two, with a bottle of wine,
a nice little Malbec
each with a full glass in hand.

Four billion years had passed
(all that evolution and such)
to get to that very moment.
And four billion years more,
inevitably, will follow.

We are the meat (with red wine)
In the middle
of the 8 billion year thick sandwich.

Let’s toast to that

Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: FlyingVProd on September 08, 2018, 03:35:53 PM
Passion 
by T.L. Verley 

In a fit of delusion, 
I grasped the illusion. 
I embraced the smell, color, softness, and beauty. 
I hung on not noticing the thorns, 
As the blood ran down my hands, 
And onto the ground, 
Until the roots sucked it up, 
And it was no longer feeding off of some unknown source, 
But instead it was feeding on me. 

---

Here is a page with some of my poetry on it...

http://more.showfax.com/bbs2/viewtopic.php?t=5782

Salute,

Tony V.
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: FlyingVProd on November 04, 2018, 04:35:20 PM
Eldorado

Gaily bedight,
A gallant knight,
In sunshine and in shadow,
Had journeyed long,
Singing a song,
In search of Eldorado.

But he grew old-
This knight so bold-
And o'er his heart a shadow
Fell as he found
No spot of ground
That looked like Eldorado.

And, as his strength
Failed him at length,
He met a pilgrim shadow-
"Shadow," said he,
"Where can it be-
This land of Eldorado?"

"Over the Mountains
Of the Moon,
Down the Valley of the Shadow,
Ride, boldly ride,"
The shade replied-
"If you seek for Eldorado!"

Edgar Allan Poe

--------

Salute,

Tony V.
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: barton on November 10, 2018, 08:09:44 PM
so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens.

  -- William Carlos Williams
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: barton on November 10, 2018, 08:35:28 PM
To Elsie

The pure products of America
go crazy—
mountain folk from Kentucky

or the ribbed north end of
Jersey
with its isolate lakes and

valleys, its deaf-mutes, thieves
old names
and promiscuity between

devil-may-care men who have taken
to railroading
out of sheer lust of adventure—

and young slatterns, bathed
in filth
from Monday to Saturday

to be tricked out that night
with gauds
from imaginations which have no

peasant traditions to give them
character
but flutter and flaunt

sheer rags—succumbing without
emotion
save numbed terror

under some hedge of choke-cherry
or viburnum—
which they cannot express—

Unless it be that marriage
perhaps
with a dash of Indian blood

will throw up a girl so desolate
so hemmed round
with disease or murder

that she'll be rescued by an
agent—
reared by the state and

sent out at fifteen to work in
some hard-pressed
house in the suburbs—

some doctor's family, some Elsie—
voluptuous water
expressing with broken

brain the truth about us—
her great
ungainly hips and flopping breasts

addressed to cheap
jewelry
and rich young men with fine eyes

as if the earth under our feet
were
an excrement of some sky

and we degraded prisoners
destined
to hunger until we eat filth

while the imagination strains
after deer
going by fields of goldenrod in

the stifling heat of September
Somehow
it seems to destroy us

It is only in isolate flecks that
something
is given off

No one
to witness
and adjust, no one to drive the car.

-- Wm C Wms
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: FlyingVProd on January 15, 2019, 04:06:46 PM
Fly With Me
by T.L. Verley

Life is wonderful, and great times are ahead,
Precious is the time between our birth and when we are dead,
Some don't get it, some don't understand,
Some live their entire lives with their heads in the sand.

But not you and I,
We choose to fly,
We'll live life to the fullest before we die.

Some are hopeless, living life in despair,
Some have no faith in themselves, in others, or faith that God cares,
Some see only bad, and they see life as getting worse,
Instead of as a blessing, they see life as a curse.

But not you and I,
We choose to fly,
We'll live life to the fullest before we die.

Anything is possible, dreams can become real,
Though sometimes in life we are wounded, the wounds heal,
Hand and hand together we shall walk up the hill,
And see the beauty all around us and feel the love that we feel.

Because you and I,
We choose to fly,
We'll live life to the fullest before we die.

------------

Salute,

Tony V.
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: josh on January 18, 2019, 11:59:02 PM
Today, we mourn the passing of Mary Oliver.
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: FlyingVProd on January 29, 2019, 05:14:59 PM
I wrote this a long time ago, I hope you like it...
 
Tree of Life
by T.L. Verley
 
If pears became the international source of power,
the partridge would have no home.
If all the air could be bottled,
people and animals would suffocate.
And if he who controlled the air gave it back,
he still might starve to death.
 
Tis extreme I know.
 
Capitalism is my partner and friend,
compared to tyranny its evil twin,
but both hold hands against us,
every now and then.
People divide in every which way,
and when they combine I don't always condone,
as someone is always left out;
in this humans seem prone.
Deprivation as motivation,
to conform, enslave, and the such,
gets easier and easier it seems,
the more one gets out of touch.
And monsters arise in the confusion,
and ideologies that don't mean shit,
and the glory becomes an illusion,
and the victory aint worth spit.
 
Why fight or be alone in the Garden of Eden,
when there are so many to share it with?
But it aint up to one man or government,
as society must learn the trick.

--------

Salute,

Tony V.

Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: barton on February 22, 2019, 08:51:56 PM
Lines Written in Early Spring

-- William Wordsworth, 1770 - 1850

 I heard a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sat reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

To her fair works did nature link
The human soul that through me ran;
And much it grieved my heart to think
What man has made of man.

Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower,
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;                         
And ‘tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.

The birds around me hopped and played:
Their thoughts I cannot measure,
But the least motion which they made,
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.

The budding twigs spread out their fan,
To catch the breezy air;
And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.                             

If this belief from heaven be sent,
If such be Nature’s holy plan,
Have I not reason to lament
What man has made of man?
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: oilcan on March 20, 2019, 01:33:43 PM
Ferlinghetti turns 100 this Sunday.  And has a new book.

https://www.washingtonpost.com/entertainment/books/lawrence-ferlinghetti-is-about-to-turn-100-and-he-hasnt-mellowed-at-all/2019/03/14/bdafafc0-45c4-11e9-aaf8-4512a6fe3439_story.html?utm_term=.0b1d4502a277



Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: FlyingVProd on August 12, 2019, 05:47:40 PM
A Dream Deferred

What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
Like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore--
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--
like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?

Langston Hughes

-----------

That poem was used as the intro for the play "A Raisin in the Sun." When I was in college and in acting school I really got into the plays written by Black people, and poetry by Black people, I could relate to the suffering and poverty and I could relate to their desire to rise. Some of the best poetry, and plays, and music, are by Black people.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/A_Raisin_in_the_Sun

I could relate to people who want to overthrow oppression and experience true freedom.

The modern slaves are the workers in communist China, people need to flood China with the Black poetry so they can see how much the modern Chinese are like the Blacks during slavery.

Salute,

Tony V.
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: FlyingVProd on April 11, 2020, 03:43:39 PM
Here is a poem I wrote a long time ago, while sitting on a bus bench on Hollywood Blvd.


The Blvd
by T.L. Verley


People scared of each other
like everyone is a killer
Homeless, beaten, and not unlike a frightened animal
amongst the cream of the crop
an eighty thousand dollar horn honks at a man with no shoes
An angry fist raises to a lady who is doing no wrong
Three out of a thousand are not afraid to smile
A lady from thousands of miles away
struts beautiful legs and seems not afraid of anything
Another lady smiles and says "Hi"
A dude bums a smoke and outstretches a hand to shake
Autographs of the immortal in concrete
living in millions of minds
In between the desert and the sea
had Thomas Edison not been so greedy
this place might not exist
had others not wanted freedom away from him
this place might not exist
but it does
And people come from all over the world
to see reminants of their home-screen heroes
A hooker sells love because love for free pays no bills
was this her childhood dream
Is the empire crumbling
Why don't people smile at each other more
Why does some asshole bombard through traffic with his horn blowing
are everyone's rights not equal to his
If I were on the roof of a passing bus I would have pissed on his hood
Come on people we are not all killers
enjoy each other and embrace each other and love each other
I walk until my feet hurt
then I sit and watch
Cool place really
but it is all crumbling
Am I and are we


Salute,

Tony V.
 
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: barton on April 18, 2020, 08:43:35 PM
Buying Produce in the Time of Corona



If I squeeze a melon
I'm seen as a felon.

Touch an avocado
I'm a desperado.

To cough on a carrot -
No one would dare it.

When sweetness is sought
One develops the hunch
That grapes may not
Be pulled from the bunch

TS Eliot wonders about eating a peach,
Now we all ponder mortality
Ere we so much as reach.

* * *
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: FlyingVProd on June 02, 2020, 02:02:41 PM
Frederick Douglass

When it is finally ours, this freedom, this liberty, this beautiful
and terrible thing, needful to man as air,
usable as earth; when it belongs at last to all,
when it is truly instinct, brain matter, diastole, systole,
reflex action; when it is finally won; when it is more
than the gaudy mumbo jumbo of politicians:
this man, this Douglass, this former slave, this Negro
beaten to his knees, exiled, visioning a world
where none is lonely, none hunted, alien,
this man, superb in love and logic, this man
shall be remembered. Oh, not with statues' rhetoric,
not with legends and poems and wreaths of bronze alone,
but with the lives grown out of his life, the lives
fleshing his dream of the beautiful, needful thing.

By Robert Hayden


------------

Salute,

Tony V.
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: FlyingVProd on June 02, 2020, 02:06:29 PM
Freedom's Plow

When a man starts out with nothing,
When a man starts out with his hands
Empty, but clean,
When a man starts to build a world,
He starts first with himself
And the faith that is in his heart-
The strength there,
The will there to build.

First in the heart is the dream-
Then the mind starts seeking a way.
His eyes look out on the world,
On the great wooded world,
On the rich soil of the world,
On the rivers of the world.

The eyes see there materials for building,
See the difficulties, too, and the obstacles.
The mind seeks a way to overcome these obstacles.
The hand seeks tools to cut the wood,
To till the soil, and harness the power of the waters.
Then the hand seeks other hands to help,
A community of hands to help-
Thus the dream becomes not one man’s dream alone,
But a community dream.
Not my dream alone, but our dream.
Not my world alone,
But your world and my world,
Belonging to all the hands who build.

A long time ago, but not too long ago,
Ships came from across the sea
Bringing the Pilgrims and prayer-makers,
Adventurers and booty seekers,
Free men and indentured servants,
Slave men and slave masters, all new-
To a new world, America!

With billowing sails the galleons came
Bringing men and dreams, women and dreams.
In little bands together,
Heart reaching out to heart,
Hand reaching out to hand,
They began to build our land.
Some were free hands
Seeking a greater freedom,
Some were indentured hands
Hoping to find their freedom,
Some were slave hands
Guarding in their hearts the seed of freedom,
But the word was there always:
Freedom.

Down into the earth went the plow
In the free hands and the slave hands,
In indentured hands and adventurous hands,
Turning the rich soil went the plow in many hands
That planted and harvested the food that fed
And the cotton that clothed America.
Clang against the trees went the ax into many hands
That hewed and shaped the rooftops of America.
Splash into the rivers and the seas went the boat-hulls
That moved and transported America.
Crack went the whips that drove the horses
Across the plains of America.
Free hands and slave hands,
Indentured hands, adventurous hands,
White hands and black hands
Held the plow handles,
Ax handles, hammer handles,
Launched the boats and whipped the horses
That fed and housed and moved America.
Thus together through labor,
All these hands made America.

Labor! Out of labor came villages
And the towns that grew cities.
Labor! Out of labor came the rowboats
And the sailboats and the steamboats,
Came the wagons, and the coaches,
Covered wagons, stage coaches,
Out of labor came the factories,
Came the foundries, came the railroads.
Came the marts and markets, shops and stores,
Came the mighty products moulded, manufactured,
Sold in shops, piled in warehouses,
Shipped the wide world over:
Out of labor-white hands and black hands-
Came the dream, the strength, the will,
And the way to build America.
Now it is Me here, and You there.
Now it’s Manhattan, Chicago,
Seattle, New Orleans,
Boston and El Paso-
Now it’s the U.S.A.

A long time ago, but not too long ago, a man said:
ALL MEN ARE CREATED EQUAL—
ENDOWED BY THEIR CREATOR
WITH CERTAIN UNALIENABLE RIGHTS—
AMONG THESE LIFE, LIBERTY
AND THE PURSUIT OF HAPPINESS.
His name was Jefferson. There were slaves then,
But in their hearts the slaves believed him, too,
And silently too for granted
That what he said was also meant for them.
It was a long time ago,
But not so long ago at that, Lincoln said:
NO MAN IS GOOD ENOUGH
TO GOVERN ANOTHER MAN
WITHOUT THAT OTHER’S CONSENT.
There were slaves then, too,
But in their hearts the slaves knew
What he said must be meant for every human being-
Else it had no meaning for anyone.
Then a man said:
BETTER TO DIE FREE
THAN TO LIVE SLAVES
He was a colored man who had been a slave
But had run away to freedom.
And the slaves knew
What Frederick Douglass said was true.

With John Brown at Harper’s Ferry, Negroes died.
John Brown was hung.
Before the Civil War, days were dark,
And nobody knew for sure
When freedom would triumph
"Or if it would," thought some.
But others new it had to triumph.
In those dark days of slavery,
Guarding in their hearts the seed of freedom,
The slaves made up a song:
Keep Your Hand On The Plow! Hold On!
That song meant just what it said: Hold On!
Freedom will come!
Keep Your Hand On The Plow! Hold On!
Out of war it came, bloody and terrible!
But it came!
Some there were, as always,
Who doubted that the war would end right,
That the slaves would be free,
Or that the union would stand,
But now we know how it all came out.
Out of the darkest days for people and a nation,
We know now how it came out.
There was light when the battle clouds rolled away.
There was a great wooded land,
And men united as a nation.

America is a dream.
The poet says it was promises.
The people say it is promises-that will come true.
The people do not always say things out loud,
Nor write them down on paper.
The people often hold
Great thoughts in their deepest hearts
And sometimes only blunderingly express them,
Haltingly and stumblingly say them,
And faultily put them into practice.
The people do not always understand each other.
But there is, somewhere there,
Always the trying to understand,
And the trying to say,
"You are a man. Together we are building our land."

America!
Land created in common,
Dream nourished in common,
Keep your hand on the plow! Hold on!
If the house is not yet finished,
Don’t be discouraged, builder!
If the fight is not yet won,
Don’t be weary, soldier!
The plan and the pattern is here,
Woven from the beginning
Into the warp and woof of America:
ALL MEN ARE CREATED EQUAL.
NO MAN IS GOOD ENOUGH
TO GOVERN ANOTHER MAN
WITHOUT HIS CONSENT.
BETTER DIE FREE,
THAN TO LIVE SLAVES.
Who said those things? Americans!
Who owns those words? America!
Who is America? You, me!
We are America!
To the enemy who would conquer us from without,
We say, NO!
To the enemy who would divide
And conquer us from within,
We say, NO!
FREEDOM!
BROTHERHOOD!
DEMOCRACY!
To all the enemies of these great words:
We say, NO!

A long time ago,
An enslaved people heading toward freedom
Made up a song:
Keep Your Hand On The Plow! Hold On!
The plow plowed a new furrow
Across the field of history.
Into that furrow the freedom seed was dropped.
From that seed a tree grew, is growing, will ever grow.
That tree is for everybody,
For all America, for all the world.
May its branches spread and shelter grow
Until all races and all peoples know its shade.
KEEP YOUR HAND ON THE PLOW! HOLD ON!

By Langston Hughes

-----------

Salute,

Tony V.


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: FlyingVProd on June 02, 2020, 02:21:13 PM
The Harlem Dancer

Applauding youths laughed with young prostitutes
And watched her perfect, half-clothed body sway;
Her voice was like the sound of blended flutes
Blown by black players upon a picnic day.
She sang and danced on gracefully and calm,
The light gauze hanging loose about her form;
To me she seemed a proudly-swaying palm
Grown lovelier for passing through a storm.
Upon her swarthy neck black shiny curls
Luxuriant fell; and tossing coins in praise,
The wine-flushed, bold-eyed boys, and even the girls,
Devoured her shape with eager, passionate gaze;
But looking at her falsely-smiling face,
I knew her self was not in that strange place.

By Claude McKay

----------------

Salute,

Tony V.
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: barton on June 23, 2020, 11:23:04 AM
If anyone should touch
A mink that is Dutch,
Go to the sink
And wash off that mink,

Because they catch corona,
And send it on to their ownah,
Who may spread it widely
From Oslo to Pamplona.
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Hairy Lime on June 23, 2020, 01:40:42 PM
Freedom's Plow

When a man starts out with nothing,
When a man starts out with his hands
Empty, but clean,
When a man starts to build a world,
He starts first with himself
And the faith that is in his heart-
The strength there,
The will there to build.

First in the heart is the dream-
Then the mind starts seeking a way.
His eyes look out on the world,
On the great wooded world,
On the rich soil of the world,
On the rivers of the world.

The eyes see there materials for building,
See the difficulties, too, and the obstacles.
The mind seeks a way to overcome these obstacles.
The hand seeks tools to cut the wood,
To till the soil, and harness the power of the waters.
Then the hand seeks other hands to help,
A community of hands to help-
Thus the dream becomes not one man’s dream alone,
But a community dream.
Not my dream alone, but our dream.
Not my world alone,
But your world and my world,
Belonging to all the hands who build.

A long time ago, but not too long ago,
Ships came from across the sea
Bringing the Pilgrims and prayer-makers,
Adventurers and booty seekers,
Free men and indentured servants,
Slave men and slave masters, all new-
To a new world, America!

With billowing sails the galleons came
Bringing men and dreams, women and dreams.
In little bands together,
Heart reaching out to heart,
Hand reaching out to hand,
They began to build our land.
Some were free hands
Seeking a greater freedom,
Some were indentured hands
Hoping to find their freedom,
Some were slave hands
Guarding in their hearts the seed of freedom,
But the word was there always:
Freedom.

Down into the earth went the plow
In the free hands and the slave hands,
In indentured hands and adventurous hands,
Turning the rich soil went the plow in many hands
That planted and harvested the food that fed
And the cotton that clothed America.
Clang against the trees went the ax into many hands
That hewed and shaped the rooftops of America.
Splash into the rivers and the seas went the boat-hulls
That moved and transported America.
Crack went the whips that drove the horses
Across the plains of America.
Free hands and slave hands,
Indentured hands, adventurous hands,
White hands and black hands
Held the plow handles,
Ax handles, hammer handles,
Launched the boats and whipped the horses
That fed and housed and moved America.
Thus together through labor,
All these hands made America.

Labor! Out of labor came villages
And the towns that grew cities.
Labor! Out of labor came the rowboats
And the sailboats and the steamboats,
Came the wagons, and the coaches,
Covered wagons, stage coaches,
Out of labor came the factories,
Came the foundries, came the railroads.
Came the marts and markets, shops and stores,
Came the mighty products moulded, manufactured,
Sold in shops, piled in warehouses,
Shipped the wide world over:
Out of labor-white hands and black hands-
Came the dream, the strength, the will,
And the way to build America.
Now it is Me here, and You there.
Now it’s Manhattan, Chicago,
Seattle, New Orleans,
Boston and El Paso-
Now it’s the U.S.A.

A long time ago, but not too long ago, a man said:
ALL MEN ARE CREATED EQUAL—
ENDOWED BY THEIR CREATOR
WITH CERTAIN UNALIENABLE RIGHTS—
AMONG THESE LIFE, LIBERTY
AND THE PURSUIT OF HAPPINESS.
His name was Jefferson. There were slaves then,
But in their hearts the slaves believed him, too,
And silently too for granted
That what he said was also meant for them.
It was a long time ago,
But not so long ago at that, Lincoln said:
NO MAN IS GOOD ENOUGH
TO GOVERN ANOTHER MAN
WITHOUT THAT OTHER’S CONSENT.
There were slaves then, too,
But in their hearts the slaves knew
What he said must be meant for every human being-
Else it had no meaning for anyone.
Then a man said:
BETTER TO DIE FREE
THAN TO LIVE SLAVES
He was a colored man who had been a slave
But had run away to freedom.
And the slaves knew
What Frederick Douglass said was true.

With John Brown at Harper’s Ferry, Negroes died.
John Brown was hung.
Before the Civil War, days were dark,
And nobody knew for sure
When freedom would triumph
"Or if it would," thought some.
But others new it had to triumph.
In those dark days of slavery,
Guarding in their hearts the seed of freedom,
The slaves made up a song:
Keep Your Hand On The Plow! Hold On!
That song meant just what it said: Hold On!
Freedom will come!
Keep Your Hand On The Plow! Hold On!
Out of war it came, bloody and terrible!
But it came!
Some there were, as always,
Who doubted that the war would end right,
That the slaves would be free,
Or that the union would stand,
But now we know how it all came out.
Out of the darkest days for people and a nation,
We know now how it came out.
There was light when the battle clouds rolled away.
There was a great wooded land,
And men united as a nation.

America is a dream.
The poet says it was promises.
The people say it is promises-that will come true.
The people do not always say things out loud,
Nor write them down on paper.
The people often hold
Great thoughts in their deepest hearts
And sometimes only blunderingly express them,
Haltingly and stumblingly say them,
And faultily put them into practice.
The people do not always understand each other.
But there is, somewhere there,
Always the trying to understand,
And the trying to say,
"You are a man. Together we are building our land."

America!
Land created in common,
Dream nourished in common,
Keep your hand on the plow! Hold on!
If the house is not yet finished,
Don’t be discouraged, builder!
If the fight is not yet won,
Don’t be weary, soldier!
The plan and the pattern is here,
Woven from the beginning
Into the warp and woof of America:
ALL MEN ARE CREATED EQUAL.
NO MAN IS GOOD ENOUGH
TO GOVERN ANOTHER MAN
WITHOUT HIS CONSENT.
BETTER DIE FREE,
THAN TO LIVE SLAVES.
Who said those things? Americans!
Who owns those words? America!
Who is America? You, me!
We are America!
To the enemy who would conquer us from without,
We say, NO!
To the enemy who would divide
And conquer us from within,
We say, NO!
FREEDOM!
BROTHERHOOD!
DEMOCRACY!
To all the enemies of these great words:
We say, NO!

A long time ago,
An enslaved people heading toward freedom
Made up a song:
Keep Your Hand On The Plow! Hold On!
The plow plowed a new furrow
Across the field of history.
Into that furrow the freedom seed was dropped.
From that seed a tree grew, is growing, will ever grow.
That tree is for everybody,
For all America, for all the world.
May its branches spread and shelter grow
Until all races and all peoples know its shade.
KEEP YOUR HAND ON THE PLOW! HOLD ON!

By Langston Hughes

-----------

Salute,

Tony V.
He has been more succinct.

Harlem

BY LANGSTON HUGHES

What happens to a dream deferred?


      Does it dry up

      like a raisin in the sun?

      Or fester like a sore—

      And then run?

      Does it stink like rotten meat?

      Or crust and sugar over—

      like a syrupy sweet?


      Maybe it just sags

      like a heavy load.


      Or does it explode?


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: barton on June 30, 2020, 05:44:51 PM
Do you have an Emily in the family?   "Emily Lime" would be a great name for a writer of palindromes.   

Or Abe Omar Amoeba.   If you're into the whole microbe thing.
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: barton on August 20, 2020, 11:30:46 AM
Haiku

The justice cannon
Is now turned on Steve Bannon
Defrauds wall zealots.

Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: FlyingVProd on August 24, 2020, 02:21:20 PM
If

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too:
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream- -and not make dreams your master;
If you can think- -and not make thoughts your aim,
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same:.
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build'em up with worn-out tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings,
And never breathe a word about your loss:
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on! '

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings- -nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much:
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And- -which is more- -you'll be a Man, my son!

Rudyard Kipling

_____________

Salute,

Tony V.
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: FlyingVProd on September 26, 2020, 03:16:17 PM
Gus: The Theatre Cat
By T.S. Eliot
 
Gus is the Cat at the Theatre Door.
His name, as I ought to have told you before,
Is really Asparagus. That's such a fuss
To pronounce, that we usually call him just Gus.
His coat's very shabby, he's thin as a rake,
And he suffers from palsy that makes his paw shake.
Yet he was, in his youth, quite the smartest of Cats -
But no longer a terror to mice and to rats.
For he isn't the Cat that he was in his prime;
Though his name was quite famous, he says, in its time.
And whenever he joins his friends at their club
(Which takes place at the back of the neighbouring pub. )
He loves to regale them, if someone else pays,
With anecdotes drawn from his palmiest days.
For he once was a Star of the highest degree -
He has acted with Irving, he's acted with Tree.
And he likes to relate his success on the Halls,
Where the Gallery once gave him seven cat-calls.
But his grandest creation, as he loves to tell,
Was Firefrorefiddle, the Fiend of the Fell.

`I have played', so he says, `every possible part,
And I used to know seventy speeches by heart.
I'd extemporize back-chat, I knew how to gag,
And I know how to let the cat out of the bag.
I knew how to act with my back and my tail;
With an hour of rehearsal, I never could fail.
I'd a voice that would soften the hardest of hearts,
Whether I took the lead, or in character parts.
I have sat by the bedside of poor Little Nell;
When the Curfew was rung, then I swung on the bell.
In the Pantomime season I never fell flat
And I once understudied Dick Whittington's Cat.
But my grandest creation, as history will tell,
Was Firefrorefiddle, the Fiend of the Fell.'

Then, if someone will give him a toothful of gin,
He will tell how he once played a part in East Lynne.
At a Shakespeare performance he once walked on pat,
When some actor suggested the need for a cat.
He once played a Tiger - could do it again -
Which an Indian Colonel pursued down a drain.
And he thinks that he still can, much better than most,
Produce blood-curdling noises to bring on the Ghost.
And he once crossed the stage on a telegraph wire,
To rescue a child when a house was on fire.
And he says: `Now, these kittens, they do not get trained
As we did in the days when Victoria reigned.
They never get drilled in a regular troupe,
And they think they are smart, just to jump through a hoop.'
And he'll say, as he scratches himself with his claws,
`Well, the Theatre's certainly not what it was.
These modern productions are all very well,
But there's nothing to equal, from what I hear tell,
That moment of mystery
When I made history
As Firefrorefiddle, the Fiend of the Fell.'

-----------

Salute,

Tony V.
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Oilcan on December 06, 2020, 04:00:07 PM
https://www.newyorker.com/books/page-turner/the-secret-history-of-t-s-eliots-muse
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: barton on January 18, 2021, 07:26:26 PM
https://www.gocomics.com/calvinandhobbes/2012/08/12
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: FlyingVProd on February 09, 2021, 07:54:40 PM
Atherosclesosis 
by T.L. Verley
 
 
The true love of which all seek
but seldom grab onto
The real stuff of which all speak
but seldom ever do
Above riches, reputation, and all of self
We need it like air
Yet it sits on the shelf
Our tender souls we won't share
Afraid to be hurt and won't take the time
It won't be your's this way
Nor will it be mine
Tis a futile game we play
We fake it with imposters in the beginning
In between what we convince ourselves counts
And we make believe we are living
While we are dying in large amounts
 
Learn young, hold out, and when it comes hold on
Make love the roots of all you do
Your tree of life will be beautiful and strong
And every phony that did not will wish they were you.
 
---------

Salute,

Tony V.
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Oilcan on February 20, 2021, 03:04:41 PM
Golden uterus
Sure tuned log.

-- palindrome
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: barton on February 23, 2021, 08:17:34 PM
RIP Lawrence Ferlinghetti,  poet and Beat icon.  Died a month shy of his 102nd birthday.
(which he shared with my papa)

https://apnews.com/article/lawrence-ferlinghetti-jack-kerouac-san-francisco-allen-ginsberg-abf9cd1a91ac39a3b4282608ffac1998

Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: barton on February 23, 2021, 08:20:01 PM
Golden uterus
Sure tuned log.

-- palindrome

Tiny man,  I gave vagina my nit.
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Oilcan on February 25, 2021, 11:19:52 AM
On pure Venus,  sun ever up?   No.

Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Hairy Lime on February 25, 2021, 12:19:43 PM
On pure Venus,  sun ever up?   No.
Sun? Ay, my anus.
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: barton on February 25, 2021, 01:56:55 PM
Emily: Riah nuts stun Hairy Lime. 

Title: Re: Vogon Poetry
Post by: Oilcan on March 14, 2021, 05:54:37 PM
Oh freddled gruntbuggly,
Thy micturations are to me, (with big yawning)
As plurdled gabbleblotchits, in midsummer morning
On a lurgid bee,
That mordiously hath blurted out,
Its earted jurtles, grumbling
Into a rancid festering confectious organ squealer.
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Oilcan on March 14, 2021, 05:59:51 PM
Adams woukd have turned 69, last Thursday, had he not passed prematurely in 2001. 

Two days before he died,  an asteroid was named "arthurdent" in his honor.
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Oilcan on March 15, 2021, 09:17:55 PM
Here's some Troilus,  to clear the palate....

I am giddy; expectation whirls me round.
The imaginary relish is so sweet
That it enchants my sense: what will it be,
When that the watery palate tastes indeed
Love's thrice repured nectar? death, I fear me,
Swooning destruction, or some joy too fine,
Too subtle-potent, tuned too sharp in sweetness,
For the capacity of my ruder powers:
I fear it much; and I do fear besides,
That I shall lose distinction in my joys;
As doth a battle, when they charge on heaps
The enemy flying.   
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: barton on March 26, 2021, 10:02:07 AM
Ever Given palindrome:



Zeus wonk cuts kayak stuck now,  Suez.
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: FlyingVProd on March 27, 2021, 02:49:38 PM
Free Love
by Henry D. Thoreau


 
MY love must be as free
As is the eagle's wing,
Hovering o'er land and sea
And every thing.

I must not dim my eye
In thy saloon,
I must not leave my sky
And nightly moon.

Be not the fowler's net
Which stays my flight,
And craftily is set
T' allure the sight,

But be the favoring gale
That bears me on,
And still doth fill my sail
When thou art gone.

I cannot leave my sky
For thy caprice,
True love would soar as high
As heaven is.

The eagle would not brook
Her mate thus won,
Who trained his eye to look
Beneath the sun.


---------

Salute,

Tony V.
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Oilcan on March 28, 2021, 03:13:11 PM
Dog stops traffic if fart spots God.
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: barton on March 30, 2021, 09:13:54 PM
Boris' Trafalgar brag: LA farts I rob!


Red,  no witness sent,  I  wonder.   

Ma,  hate Biden?  I dined,  I bet a ham.

Rise to vote,  sir.
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: FlyingVProd on April 22, 2021, 11:37:47 AM
Wow is it easy to print a book now, I wish it was this easy when I wrote my poetry book 30 years ago, I would have done it a long time ago.

https://press.barnesandnoble.com/print-on-demand/

I have my Copyright from the Library of Congress, but I need to get an International Standard Book Number, and a Bar Code, then I can sell my book at Barnes and Noble. I would love to get my book into book stores. It is old now, I wrote it a long time ago, but good poetry is always good.

I will be the first person in my family to publish a book, it would be cool, and I can pass it down, my Great Grandchildren will be able to read my poetry, if I can ever find a wife and have kids. But, women love successful poets.

My Grandfather's Brother was in a book about Oregon, "Rankin Crow and the Oregon Country" but he did not write the book.

I am the first one to write a book.

Salute,

Tony V.
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: facilitatorn on April 25, 2021, 05:58:36 AM
Spinoza meets Li Po

I have four lines
On which you can
Confidently lay your table

You are an instrument that perceives God
You are the instrument that perceives God
I am an instrument that perceives God
I am the instrument that perceives God

Based thus respect flows mind to mind
Destiny and choice find a place to perch
Together singing season time by tide
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: barton on April 25, 2021, 09:24:46 PM
The instrument through which you see God is your whole self. And if a man's self is not kept clean and bright, his glimpse of God will be blurred.

         - C. S.  Lewis
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: facilitatorn on April 27, 2021, 01:01:56 PM
On pure Venus,  sun ever up?   No.
Sun? Ay, my anus.

Stellar.
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: barton on May 08, 2021, 12:06:18 PM
Illegitimate vote audit palindrome:

Maricopa:  PoC I ram.



Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: FlyingVProd on May 27, 2021, 01:05:11 PM
I wrote to Barnes and Noble to ask them which computers and which programs are needed to publish books with Barnes and Noble, and here is their response...

-----

Hi Tony,
 
Thank you for writing to us.
 
Most authors write their books in a word processing software program, such as Microsoft Word, WordPerfect, Mac Pages, or Google Docs. These programs are perfect for the writing process, but may not be ideal for printing because what is shown on screen may not translate faithfully to the printer. Spacing and page breaks may differ, for example. A document that looks tidy online might appear awkward when printed, so if you’re uploading an MS Word document as your interior, be sure to double check your interior digital proof. Remember, too, that we don’t accept interior documents in WordPerfect, Mac Pages, or Google Docs. While we accept print-ready MS Word documents for the interior, you may want instead to choose a print-ready PDF file for your interior, which will translate exactly what’s on screen to the printer. No matter the computer or machine, a PDF will print the same way because it’s in a “locked format.” Having a locked-formatted document is great for knowing exactly how your book will look when it’s printed. A print-ready PDF does have limitations, though. There are a few rules to make sure the PDF version of your manuscript results in a good-looking book. We’ll walk you through the steps for converting from a word document to a PDF if you choose to do so, and help you avoid the pitfalls of these limitations.
 
 

The Barnes & Noble Press Business Team

-------

Salute,

Tony V.
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Oilcan on July 28, 2021, 09:24:48 PM


An IGA voyeur true yo' vagina.   
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Holly Martins on August 04, 2021, 09:31:05 AM
Ha, bruh,  Giuliani sin ail Uighur.   Bah!
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Holly Martins on October 01, 2021, 04:44:58 PM
If your posts get so clipped
It causes claustrophobia
Then its time to get hip
And induce apostrophobia.

Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Holly Martins on October 01, 2021, 05:02:40 PM


Maitre's sedative tuber - yam - may rebut Evita dessert aim.   
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Oilcan on November 30, 2021, 04:38:04 PM
Ma, is a lathe lethal as I am?
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Oilcan on December 25, 2021, 02:55:03 PM
Reg, aw, did Alaska warm?  No, it a cold location, m, raw AK salad, I'd wager.
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: josh on January 04, 2022, 07:46:58 PM
(https://scontent-bos3-1.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t1.6435-9/133921263_10159231433717578_4513531277095740893_n.jpg?_nc_cat=110&ccb=1-5&_nc_sid=8bfeb9&_nc_ohc=m48AO-uPOf0AX8iPLr1&tn=aQaxeqK0Pwd0simd&_nc_ht=scontent-bos3-1.xx&oh=00_AT-CoNy9RUA0BzmZAjIqcX6AlGXXuhLHrbmkJ0OoKyFfmQ&oe=61FADD4C)
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Oilcan on January 06, 2022, 03:25:27 PM
A DNA protester frets: ET or panda?



Nice Yeatsian, Wordsworthian, Kiplingesque, etc poem of the covid panda-mick!
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Oilcan on January 09, 2022, 10:58:56 AM
Edy H., a Guantanamo Roman, at Naugahyde.
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: josh on March 18, 2022, 09:50:43 PM
https://cleoclassical.blogspot.com/2016/04/narnian-suite-by-cs-lewis.html

Narnian Suite

1

March for Strings, Kettledrums, and Sixty-three Dwarfs

With plucking pizzicato and the prattle of the kettledrum
We
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Oilcan on March 19, 2022, 06:04:56 PM
Doth promenade Dane morph Tod?
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Oilcan on March 28, 2022, 09:56:32 PM
A valiant abyss, a gassy bat nail, Ava?
Title: For Oilcan
Post by: josh on March 29, 2022, 12:30:19 PM
'Can, if you don't know this book, I think you would like to:
https://archive.org/details/brandxanthologyo00zara

The Brand X Anthology of Poetry, A Parody Anthology

You have to register to "borrow" books, but it's free and the Archive sends very few emails.
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Oilcan on March 29, 2022, 07:52:48 PM
Wow!  The Wallace Stevens parody, 13 Ways to Eradicate Blackbirds, had me salivating.  Yes, will check this out.  Thanks, Josh.
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: josh on March 30, 2022, 08:08:47 AM
Wow!  The Wallace Stevens parody, 13 Ways to Eradicate Blackbirds, had me salivating.  Yes, will check this out.  Thanks, Josh.

My pleasure.

Poetry is so far from my forte that I feel I rarely have anything to contribute here, but this is a much loved book and I was thrilled to find a readily shareable version for you.
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Holly Martins on March 30, 2022, 12:17:31 PM
The William Carlos Williams and Ezra Pound parodies are well done.  The site let me download a PDF, but seemed to think I'm borrowing it for a couple weeks.  Does that mean the file evaporates from my hard drive after that?  Or does it dry up...like a raisin in the sun? 
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: josh on March 30, 2022, 12:38:31 PM
The William Carlos Williams and Ezra Pound parodies are well done.  The site let me download a PDF, but seemed to think I'm borrowing it for a couple weeks.  Does that mean the file evaporates from my hard drive after that?  Or does it dry up...like a raisin in the sun?

It goes away, but I don't remember the specifics of whether it becomes a lump you have to delete or if it self-deletes.

The site has one of the broadest overall selections out there. It also has music (many recorded concerts) and movies, in addition to the books, audio books and journals you might expect.
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Holly Martins on May 14, 2022, 10:35:02 AM
Turning and turning in the widening gyre   
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere   
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst   
Are full of passionate intensity.
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: FlyingVProd on June 27, 2022, 10:31:57 PM
William Shakespeare

Sonnets LIV

O, how much more doth beauty beauteous seem
By that sweet ornament which truth doth give!
The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem
For that sweet odor which doth in it live.
The canker-blooms have full as deep a dye
As the perfumed tincture of the roses,
Hang on such thorns and play as wantonly
When summer's breath their masked buds discloses:
But, for their virtue only is their show,
They live unwoo'd and unrespected fade,
Die to themselves. Sweet roses do not so;
Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odors made:
And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth,
When that shall fade, my verse distills your truth.
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Holly Martins on July 17, 2022, 09:16:35 AM
Oh, Canada had a nacho.
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Holly Martins on July 23, 2022, 06:37:58 PM
Good friend, for Jesus' sake forbear, to dig the dust enclosed here.
Blessed be the man that spares these stones, And cursed be he that moves my bones.

(spotted on a grave in Warwickshire)
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: FlyingVProd on August 10, 2022, 03:06:00 PM
Robert Frost

The Figure a Poem Makes (1939)

Abstraction is an old story with the philosophers, but it has been like a new toy in the hands of the
artists of our day. Why cannot we have any one quality of poetry we choose by itself? We can have in
thought. Then it will go hard if we cannot in practice. Our lives for it.

Granted no one but a humanist much cares how sound a poem is if it is only a sound. The sound is
the gold in the ore. Then we will have the sound out alone and dispense with the inessential. We do
till we make the discovery that the object in writing poetry is to make all poems sound as different as
possible from each other, and the resources for that of vowels, consonants, punctuation, syntax,
words, sentences, metre are not enough. We need the help of context - meaning - subject matter. That
is the greatest help towards variety. All that can be done with words is soon told. So also with
metres - particularly in our language where there are virtually but two, strict iambic and loose
iambic. The ancients with many were still poor if they depended on metres for all tune. It is painful
to watch our sprung - rhythmists straining at the point of omitting one short from a foot for relief
from monotony. The possibilities for tune from the dramatic tones of meaning struck across the
rigidity of a limited metre are endless. And we are back in poetry as merely one more art of having
something to say, sound or unsound. Probably better if sound, because deeper and from wider
experience.

Then there is this wildness whereof it is spoken. Granted again that it has an equal claim with sound
to being the better half of a poem. If it is a wild tune, it is a Poem. Our problem then is, as modern
abstractionists, to have the wildness pure; to be wild with nothing to be wild about. We bring up as
aberrationists, giving way to undirected associations and kicking ourselves from one chance
suggestion to another in all directions as of a hot afternoon in the life of a grasshopper. Theme
alone can steady us down. just as the first mystery was how a poem could have a tune in such a
straightness as metre, so the second mystery is how a poem can have wildness and at the same time
a subject that shall be fulfilled.

It should be of the pleasure of a poem itself to tell how it can. The figure a poem makes. It begins in
delight and ends in wisdom. The figure is the same as for love. No one can really hold that the
ecstasy should be static and stand still in one place. It begins in delight, it inclines to the impulse, it
assumes direction with the first line laid down, it runs a course of lucky events, and ends in a
clarification of life - not necessarily a great clarification, such as sects and cults are founded on, but in
a momentary stay against confusion. It has denouement. It has an outcome that though unforeseen
was predestined from the first image of the original mood - and indeed from the very mood. It is but
a trick poem and no poem at all if the best of it was thought of first and saved for the last. It finds
its own name as it goes and discovers the best waiting for it in some final phrase at once wise and
sad-the happy - sad blend of the drinking song.

No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader. No surprise for the writer, no surprise for the reader.
For me the initial delight is in the surprise of remembering something I did not know I knew. I am in
a place, in a situation, as if I had materialized from cloud or risen out of the ground. There is a glad
recognition of the long lost and the rest follows. Step by step the wonder of unexpected supply
keeps growing. The impressions most useful to my purpose seem always those I was unaware of and
so made no note of at the time when taken, and the conclusion is come to that like giants we are
always hurling experience ahead of us to pave the future with against the day when we may Want to
strike a line of purpose across it for somewhere. The line will have the more charm for not being
mechanically straight. We enjoy the straight crookedness of a good walking stick. Modern
instruments of precision are being used to make things crooked as if by eye and hand in the old
days.

I tell how there may be a better wildness of logic than of inconsequence. But the logic is backward,
in retrospect, after the act. It must be more felt than seen ahead like prophecy. It must be a
revelation, or a series of revelations, as much for the poet as for the reader. For it to be that there
must have been the greatest freedom of the material to move about in it and to establish relations in
it regardless of time and space, previous relation, and everything but affinity. We prate of freedom.
We call our schools free because we are not free to stay away from them till we are sixteen years of
age. I have given up my democratic prejudices and now willingly set the lower classes free to be
completely taken care of by the upper classes. Political freedom is nothing to me. I bestow it right
and left. All I would keep for myself is the freedom of my material - the condition of body and mind
now and then to summons aptly from the vast chaos of all I have lived through.

Scholars and artists thrown together are often annoyed at the puzzle of where they differ. Both work
from knowledge; but I suspect they differ most importantly in the way their knowledge is come by.
Scholars get theirs with conscientious thoroughness along projected lines of logic; poets theirs
cavalierly and as it happens in and out of books. They stick to nothing deliberately, but let what will
stick to them like burrs where they walk in the fields. No acquirement is on assignment, or even self
assignment. Knowledge of the second kind is much more available in the wild free ways of wit and
art. A schoolboy may be defined as one who can tell you what he knows in the order in which he
learned it. The artist must value himself as he snatches a thing from some previous order in time and
space into a new order with not so much as a ligature clinging to it of the old place where it was
organic. More than once I should have lost my soul to radicalism if it had been the originality it was
mistaken for by its young converts. Originality and initiative are what I ask for my country. For
myself the originality need be no more than the freshness of a poem run in the way I have described:
from delight to wisdom. The figure is the same as for love. Like a piece of ice on a hot stove the
poem must ride on its own melting. A poem may be worked over once it is in being, but may not be
worried into being. Its most precious quality will remain its having run itself and carried away the
poet with it. Read it a hundred times: it will forever keep its freshness as a metal keeps its fragrance.
It can never lose its sense of a meaning that once unfolded by surprise as it went.
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Holly Martins on October 30, 2022, 07:58:21 PM
Palindrome poems

On this great day for Brazil and an end to authoritarian government...

Do got solo,
Bolsonaro ran.  O slob! O lost! O God!
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Oilcan on January 07, 2023, 11:43:20 AM
Martyr electrons snort celery tram.
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Oilcan on February 08, 2023, 08:27:39 PM
Yo, Bret's no malign Gila monster boy.

Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Oilcan on March 18, 2023, 04:35:01 PM
More Palindromes


Go, flirts on fora, J. Aniston snots in a jar of nostril fog.
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Oilcan on April 07, 2023, 05:41:57 PM
 Cyril, Romeo, palsied ode is LA poem or lyric.

Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Karl Barx on April 15, 2023, 04:04:27 PM
A relevant navel era.
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Oilcan on April 25, 2023, 03:39:06 PM
MIT's evil: Sevastopol's Oslo pot saves lives, Tim.
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Oilcan on April 29, 2023, 03:15:09 PM
Yo, relocated? O ban abode, taco, Leroy!
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Oilcan on May 11, 2023, 12:50:16 PM
Go help miserable Mel, bare simple hog.
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Oilcan on May 28, 2023, 02:49:29 PM
Napoleon, Elba pluck culpable Noel, O Pan.
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Oilcan on June 26, 2023, 07:27:16 PM
AI not seek united, a cadet - I nuke Estonia.
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Oilcan on July 10, 2023, 09:12:26 AM
One tips Erdogan a God respite, no?
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Oilcan on October 30, 2023, 07:24:29 PM
Demo Tylenol - nurses run lonely to med.
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Oilcan on November 10, 2023, 06:54:18 PM
Snag rotifers, refit organs.

No, my baby Roget, a cadet,  a ramen, a piano, Macron, Orca, Mona, Ipanema rated a category, baby mon!
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Oilcan on December 01, 2023, 03:44:56 PM
Gulp a sign in utero, more tuning is a plug.
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Karl Barx on December 04, 2023, 10:49:54 AM
I offer a palindrome on my favorite pastime, barking....

Hot, Sensei barks. Ask rabies nest.  Oh!
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Oilcan on December 10, 2023, 07:51:37 PM
Go, flirts!  One cardiac aid race: nostril fog!

Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Oilcan on December 20, 2023, 06:42:59 PM
An extra frets bold lobster fart, Xena.



Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Oilcan on January 03, 2024, 04:12:36 PM
Avast!  A benign engine bats Ava.
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Oilcan on January 12, 2024, 06:11:49 PM
LA minaret simple help, Mister Animal.

Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Karl Barx on January 17, 2024, 08:53:08 PM
AI demo Tesla false to media.
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Oilcan on February 20, 2024, 09:46:22 AM
Pamela, mates use tamale map.


Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Oilcan on March 01, 2024, 04:36:27 PM
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/45392/ulysses

It gets better as one grows grayer.

Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: FlyingVProd on March 12, 2024, 04:56:53 PM
James Patrick Caviezel Jr

From the depths of despair, I rise,
A phoenix forged in fire, defying lies.
Through the darkest nights and coldest days,
I find the strength to stand, to blaze my way.
In the face of cruelty, I choose love,
For kindness is my armor, lifted high above.
No shelter denied, no voice unheard,
I am the warrior of light, undeterred.
With every breath, I reclaim my power,
Turning pain into purpose, hour by hour.
For in the heart of adversity, I find my voice,
To stand tall, to inspire, to rejoice.
So let the world witness, let them see,
The triumph of resilience, the victory in me.
For I am not defined by the battles I've faced,
But by the grace with which I've embraced.

-----------

James is a great actor, and now he proves that he is a good Poet, James is a Renaissance Man.

Salute,

Tony V.
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Oilcan on March 19, 2024, 10:55:37 AM
(palindromes, cont.)


Do I report seams, Maestro Period?
Title: Re: Poetry
Post by: Oilcan on March 25, 2024, 07:36:16 PM
Lonely, Tom? Embargo? Do grab me mo' Tylenol.