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
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.



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.

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
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...


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

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



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

a red wheel

glazed with rain

beside the white

  -- 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
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
but flutter and flaunt

sheer rags—succumbing without
save numbed terror

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

Unless it be that marriage
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
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
and rich young men with fine eyes

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

and we degraded prisoners
to hunger until we eat filth

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

the stifling heat of September
it seems to destroy us

It is only in isolate flecks that
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.



Tony V.