Poetry and Poetic Thoughts

A snowstorm steals this unsuspecting May,
But still – the purple crocus dares to bloom.
The robin, dashed with snow, still makes its way
To sing of seasons promised past this gloom.

Sheltered by storm walls, the garlands glow
Green-gold – a shimmer against a sheen of white.
The city shelters in, come rain or snow,
But nature must push through, it has to fight.

These flowers will not win, I know. And often
It’s their patient kin – who knew the storm would come –
Who take their places in the earth. Their coffin
A caveat not easily undone.

And when the warm winds rise, I hear their mark:
The cries of spring that echo in the dark.


The Call of the Moon

I sense a gentle thrumming
In the corners of my mind
Then my focus goes a-spinning
And my thoughts start to unwind.

With attention-span diminished
Bright distractions all around
My projects lie unfinished
As my head begins to pound.

Silver beams shine on my table
A cool breeze stirs the night
I find that I’m unable
To keep myself from flight.

I’m racing t’ward the haven
Deep within the ancient wood
A darkling form forsaken
By all that’s Light and Good.

My speed is truly frightening
A demon on the run!
Outpacing even lightning
And shining like the Sun!

I reach my destination
In a haze of swirling dust
Possessed by the sensation
Of dark, delicious lust!

Still reeling from desire
I pause with baited breath
Have I finally caught the Fire?
Or is it only Death?

A rustling in the distance?
The night-sounds fade to nought
A footstep breaks the silence
Then suddenly I’m caught!

Before I can cry out in shock
His strong arms hold me tight
A grip like hard, unyielding rock
And yet it feels so right!

I feel his warm breath brush my neck
A silver spotlight breaks the gloom
He turns me till we’re cheek-to-cheek
And I surrender to my Doom…


I am running along the road, the river
Runs alongside me. The trees nod and wave.
I breathe the sun, in purple and pink
As it slips beneath silk covers of dusk.

The river outpaces me, as it likes.
It hastens me along its bends and tributaries.
The blue-breasted robin shakes off its snow.
It shakes off so many past lives and flies among skyscrapers.

The bridge, all smoke and air and steel,
Invites a crossing. Nearly begs for it
From the strangers who walk and bike and drive and linger–
Among strangers I lose myself in threaded wires.

It is among friends that I pause–
And – raising a glass of cider – toast to new beginnings,
And new crossings, and lengthy summer shadows
That run and run and run along the shimmering pavement.

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Poetry to soothe my mind’s tremors yet again… my imagery opium pipe.

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The moon shines silver,
The sun bides his time. Returns.
Death stalks behind him.
The moon hides from the sun. Death
Hides from the moon. The sun hides—

Sunny smiles hide
alone’s secreted wrath
Snow bleeds blood, seeping always into mother… time
Desperado crouching, bows over bruised knees and weeps curses
What is hidden
is merely being ignored
until essence lying forgotten long enough, bears forth forgiveness
flowering vines spring from leaf’s mottled mold
and the wind sighs relief

The day unwinds, possibilities fall,
Swallowed by the sun and summer air.
I wander warm streets, waiting for a call,
Waiting for a breeze, something cool, something fair.

Nothing comes, nothing goes. The river flows.
The water casting rainbows on the blue,
The white-capped froth a million tiny blows,
Reminds me of the words I spoke to you–

There’s still no answer, the dusk creeps in.
The languid heat defanged, the shadows flee.
Where the water meets the air, I swim
And hope to find you home. There, beside me.

Unsteady in the dark, I wander. I write.
A heartbroke, heatstroke dog. No bark. No bite.


Yellow turns to white:
Carpet of dandelions,
Snowbanks of pollen,
Twirling in the air like ash.
Waiting. Waiting. Sinking down.

The steeple burns, a line above the trees
Of jet black smoke obscures the setting sun,
Which blazes pink and orange – an eye that sees

Fire and ash and purple sky all spun.
I want to feel the firehose on me,
Where the river meets the air – running, rushing–

The swift currents clearing away debris,
Leaving nothing but the blackened water, gushing–
But the fire reaches, the stones come down.

A crashing wave of earth and potent symbols,
To dam my river. The water flows around…
And damn that sound! The trumpets and the cymbals!

That sound when fire, earth, and air all pause.
Reflected in the water – hubris and flaws.


I have often gone walking in the rain,
Down winding streets, along the riverbank,
Where the leaves, in blackened puddles, lain

And the gaping gutters, thirsty, drank.
Sometimes alone. Sometimes I go with me
For company. Not far from home I tread.

I never go too far, where I could be
Forgotten. The rain will come again, they said.
It falls in gentle torrents, undisturbed.

It shimmers on the pavement, beneath the light.
The sky remains the same, unperturbed.
I think I will go and walk again tonight.

Along these unacknowledged streets I train.
I have often gone walking in the rain.


The best lessons come from those who don’t practice what they preach. A preacher without experience in hell doesn’t know what he’s preaching.

Isn’t this kind of a contradictory statement?


If the preacher has no experience with hell and preaches about it, then he is not preaching what he practices. But if he does have experience with hell and preaches about it, then he is, and could have valuable lessons and insight. :grin:

You love to fuck brains, don’t you?

Read my sentences and then read yours - the statements made form each of us are saying the same thing. Just in different ways.

Haha I guess you fucked my brain instead :wink: I just misunderstood

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It’s okay. I fuck my own brains too. :exploding_head::brain:

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Definitely a fun thing to do from time to time

There once was a guy named Roger
Who thought he had a mule for a father.
He’d go out to the barn
And spin a long yarn
With this donkey who of course wouldn’t bother.

Then one day came, in the pour down rain,
Roger led his daddy inside.
His wife doth protested,
But not to be bested,
He said, “Please, he’s my dad,
Let it slide.”

After a month with their guest,
the house was entirely a mess,
And it was Roger’s wife who said
At last,
“Roger, I hate this.
This is no way to live,
Even if you think
He’s your dad.”

She packed all her things,
Her makeup, her rings,
Especially her collection of brass.
He heard the door slam.
He heard the car start.
And he heard her shout out,
“You’re an ass!”

I gather peace and creative energy from the rain, the thunder and lightning. It is pure chaos–unforgiving and boisterous. It awakens my soul. My thoughts grow clearer, my eyes grow wider, as a witness to that chaos. Each drop, each boom and flash remind me that life is pure spontaneity… ever changing. I see it in the luminescent spider silks in the sky, only for a fraction of time. I hear it in the orchestra of booms, no two crescendos the same. I see it in the unending drops of rain, each one dispersing and exploding with pure chaotic character.

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