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Here you can share your new poetry, whatever that means. No reruns please, let's make it about right now.

     

 🖋️✒️ 

To be a poet, I once believed,
was to write aesthetically:
violet blues and rosy reds
dancing along to rhythmic beat.

Seeing surface without substance,
was it broken paedagogy?
Why, Mister King, 10th grade teacher,
couldn't you name this as magic?

Not those gleamy popular tropes.
These are symbols, woven patterns,
invocations of higher form;
spirit flowing, revealing self.

Not my power, I am quite small;
something greater, living po'try,
like cloud lightning looking to strike,
searching for the path down.

Poetry is divination.
The poet is a symbol mage.
Urgent lesson, poorly learned,
but it's never too late to start.

A lifting pen beacons intent;
listening mind opening doors,
and persistence inks the contract
letting it flow out from within.

Poetry is foundational.
Poetry can inform all arts.
Poetry can animate words
with certain power, coiled up on page.

Edited by Chroma Starlight
revision
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Love it!  And no need to be some great poet, which is what I think you're saying here. The object of poetry is to access perceptions deep within oneself, ones forgotten or never known. Thinking in symbols brings these forward like nothing else. The poem can be quite simple yet contain a multitude of meanings, as this poem that just emerged for me:

Dirt.
What's so special about you when we can fly rockets to Mars or land on the moon.
Dirt.
One little teaspoon of unappreciated miracles!
I want to dive deep into you, cover my body with your fragrance, and emerge like a newborn baby.

 

 

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Chroma, this is a wonderful topic. It may get off to a slow start, but, I'm sure there are many poetic creative people on this forum. Here is my contribution entitled -

"Temple in the Sand"

I dreamed beneath the ancient sky;
Shimmering stars...a comet fly
Past the moon's craggy face,
Opiate clouds, ephemeral as wraiths.
On sand as soft as silk I lay
Warmed by the desert sun at day.

Dreams of temples, columns and halls
Scorched by the sun, their crumbling walls,
Illuminated by the desert moon
Paintings of long forgotten runes;
Distant echoes and shadows creep
In my dreams as I sleep.

Shadows, like ghosts fill these rooms
Rising like spirits from their tombs;
Funeral linens and statues of gold,
Jars of alabaster, smooth and cold;
Once graced these hall in ages past,
Now, candles and lamps no longer cast
Their soft light on these crumbling halls
And faded paintings upon the walls.

Only ghosts live in this space
Silent...mute, chained to this place.
Never hearing, never seeing
Floating, drifting, bodiless beings,
Deathly pallor and funeral trapping
Hollow eyes see distant happenings

Phantom priests hold ancient rites
Praying to strange gods in pale moonlight;
I watch their prayers rise to the sky
To unhearing gods who long ago died...
As distant echoes and shadow creep
In my dreams as I sleep....

 

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"I, Too"

I, too, sing America.

I am the darker brother.
They send me to eat in the kitchen
When company comes,
But I laugh,
And eat well,
And grow strong.

Tomorrow,
I’ll be at the table
When company comes.
Nobody’ll dare
Say to me,
“Eat in the kitchen,"
Then.

Besides,
They’ll see how beautiful I am
And be ashamed—

~Langston Hughes

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           Ready For Spring

The suffocating snow, monotone blankness stretching on forever.
Pipes frozen, toes that never warm, people dying in heatless homes.
Mother and child sleeping in a car will never wake.

What I wouldn't give to hear the soft hum of lawnmowers in the distance, my hands plunging deeply into soil to make way for newly planted life.
Sweat dripping off my brow amidst buzzing flies would be a lovely sauna. 

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I don't have a poem yet but the words over my head from my current titler say "Sing a song for the beloved Silver Swan" which sounds like a bit of poetry to me in itself.  This thought about the beloved silver swan and singing a song to her is because she is dying and there is only so much time to sing to her.  So, now is a good time.  That's basically what my titler means though I doubt anyone will "get it" but maybe it will make some people think about the beloved silver swan and why they should sing a song to her or anyone.  It's just about taking the time, taking the time to even smile at someone.  I've sort of been a shut in since lockdown in November of 2020 and saw someone smile yesterday.  It's been a while since I saw someone smile as I hardly see anyone these past months and I was amazed at my reaction which was "someone smiled".  

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Golden age

 
One of the voices
Always angelic -
It is about me, -
Sharply expresses itself :

Those thousand questions
Spreading their roots Bring in the end,
Only drunkenness and madness ;
Understand this trick

So gay, so easy :
It is only wave, only flower,
And that is your family !
Then it sings.

O So gay, so easy,
And visible to the naked eye... -
I sing with it, -
Understand this trick

So gay, so easy :
It is only wave, only flower,
And that is your family !... etc...
And then a voice -

How angelic it is ! - It is about me,
Sharply expresses itself :
And sings at this moment
Like a sister to breath :
With a German tone,
But ardent and full :
The world is vicious ;
If that surprises you !
Live and leave to the fire
Dark misfortune.

O ! pretty castle !
How bright your life is !
What age do you belong to,
Princely nature Of our elder brother ! etc...

I also sing : Many sisters ! voices
Not at all public ! Surround me
With chaste glory... etc...

Arthur Rimbaud

Edited by Panteleeva
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1 hour ago, FairreLilette said:

I don't have a poem yet but the words over my head from my current titler say "Sing a song for the beloved Silver Swan" which sounds like a bit of poetry to me in itself.  This thought about the beloved silver swan and singing a song to her is because she is dying and there is only so much time to sing to her.  So, now is a good time.  That's basically what my titler means though I doubt anyone will "get it" but maybe it will make some people think about the beloved silver swan and why they should sing a song to her or anyone.  It's just about taking the time, taking the time to even smile at someone.  I've sort of been a shut in since lockdown in November of 2020 and saw someone smile yesterday.  It's been a while since I saw someone smile as I hardly see anyone these past months and I was amazed at my reaction which was "someone smiled".  

That's a lovely concept for a poem, and you sparked a poem for me about 'smiling'.

I always smile when I see your Dinkie creations, btw.

Edited by Luna Bliss
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     Smiling Through The Wreckage Of Life

Keep smiling through the wreckage of life.
Say a 'yes' to the toil and the strife.
You may ask me why
I smile but don't cry.
Could it be it's so lovely to fly?

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44 minutes ago, Luna Bliss said:

That's a lovely concept for a poem, and you sparked a poem for me about 'smiling'.

I always smile when I see your Dinkie creations, btw.

Yeah, the words on my titler about the silver swan are on my Dinkie avatar.  I think a humanimal with those words, and a child-like one at that, makes sense when my Dinkie has these words.  Whereas, with a human avatar, I think it wouldn't work so well, as the human adult avatars are not child-like in their presence nor thought.  

Edited by FairreLilette
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I wrote this one after bingeing on old movies from the early 1930's (my favorite era). I hope you like 😊

"High Society, 1933"

He's a fascinating animal, so suave and debonair,
He looks like Clark Gable and dances like Astaire;
The ladies all adore him in his white tie and tails,
They all hope to have a chance with this fascinatin' male.

You'll find him out every night, martini glass in hand,
Jiving at the Savoy to the Benny Goodman Band;
'Jazz babies' dressed in ermine all give him the eye,
They parade past his table with long seductive sighs.

He sees a woman in the crowd dressed in diamonds and mink;
He calls a waiter to his table to order her a drink.
She is a stunning beauty, red lips and platinum hair,
Finger-waves and smoky eyes with an indifferent, sexy stare.

When her drink arrives, the waiter points to him,
With a sulty smile, she runs her finger 'round the rim;
The fascinatin' animal, now, leads her by the hand
Onto the crowded dance floor and the Benny Goodman Band.

Romance is in the air tonight, you can see it in their eyes;
Dancing cheek to cheek while the band plays a lullaby;
Another night, a different romance in "High Society",
How wonderful to be alive in 1933!

(fascinatin' male and animal' were terms Mae West used to describe handsome men)

 

 

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On 2/17/2021 at 9:47 PM, Rowan Amore said:

"I, Too"

I, too, sing America.

I am the darker brother.
They send me to eat in the kitchen
When company comes,
But I laugh,
And eat well,
And grow strong.

Tomorrow,
I’ll be at the table
When company comes.
Nobody’ll dare
Say to me,
“Eat in the kitchen,"
Then.

Besides,
They’ll see how beautiful I am
And be ashamed—

~Langston Hughes

❤️ Langston Hughes

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This Be The Verse

They ***** you up, your mum and dad.   
    They may not mean to, but they do.   
They fill you with the faults they had
    And add some extra, just for you.
 
But they were *****ed up in their turn
    By fools in old-style hats and coats,   
Who half the time were soppy-stern
    And half at one another’s throats.
 
Man hands on misery to man.
    It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
    And don’t have any kids yourself.
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1 hour ago, Horus Salubrius said:

This Be The Verse

They ***** you up, your mum and dad.   
    They may not mean to, but they do.   
They fill you with the faults they had
    And add some extra, just for you.
 
But they were *****ed up in their turn
    By fools in old-style hats and coats,   
Who half the time were soppy-stern
    And half at one another’s throats.
 
Man hands on misery to man.
    It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
    And don’t have any kids yourself.

Haha, Horus...we can have poem discussions:

                   The Divine Message

Onto my shoulder one fine day arrived a birdie red
She said we have this thing called choice if we resist all dread

No matter what your parents did, no matter what they said
If you decide it isn't true you're free cause you're not dead!

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I wrote this after seeing all the hate, pain and distruction happening in Portland, Seattle and Minneapolis.

"Exchanges"

Shall we speak of our common fate,
Of open hearts and minds?
Exchanges made, Love for hate,
We leave all fear behind.

Should we trust in our eyes?
Fierce faces behind the masks...
Exchanges made, Truth for lies,
All secrets exposed, at last.

New ways are replacing the old
As we enter the Field of Light;
Exchanges made, Warm for cold,
Darkness flees before our Might.

Tribes of Light, sisters and brothers,
Connections are being made,
Coming together, one to another,
Friendships forges, foundations laid.

Hand in hand and heart to heart,
Precious ones answer the call.
Together we will make a new start,
Exchanges made for one and all!

 

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Wrote this about my favorite place in SL not long ago:

 

The Home of Bass

Blue and red emerge through the walls
The waves of sound the place
In a virtual world
Full of life and historic memories
All kept in an emblem where
Time stands still in the beats
Making the synthetic lights move
Feeling all beautiful in the angular design
Where we are the Home of Bass
Furzona
The Home of Bass

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12 hours ago, Rat Luv said:

.

Hey where did your poem go?  I started a poem to respond to your poem, a kind of poem to poem communication, I come back and it's gone!  Totally traumatized!! 😉

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8 hours ago, Luna Bliss said:

Hey where did your poem go?  I started a poem to respond to your poem, a kind of poem to poem communication, I come back and it's gone!  Totally traumatized!! 😉

Oh it was silly...lol. 

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21 hours ago, Rat Luv said:

Oh it was silly...lol. 

Haha. Perhaps I should limit my silliness. A friend once asked if I'd smoked something...lol.

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