The Table for Troglodyte Versifier's Only

Well since the Raven is a Bar....(not an ode)

How about another poem by Pale Horse

Annotations will be provided on page 5, should this poem/thread warrent such revelations...

Miriam?s Curse

Doch-an-Dorris met me at the door.
Imbued by the muses guile
I quaffed her offering,
a flowing golden ore
laden with a raw yoke of burden.
I was impenitent for my greed.

With subtle flexuous grace
she bound my tongue,
Surrounding it in warmth
like an olive swathed
around my child?s finger

and didn't hear the tocsin
as I gamboled with her in my mouth.

Her natant poisons
whorled into my core.
I began to dance in the mote
of her effervescence;
those tiny popping needles
that cauterizes my farce.

Craven by her charm I
swallow deeply
emptying her down
from the corners of my mouth,

the way thick molasses
spills out of the broken jar
on my mother's kitchen floor

Slowly her invidious mash
razed me to insentience.
Though I struggled against her
I had become her malefactor


for want


I staggered
under the weight of her chain,
and per miscible libations she
foisted car keys into my
mien drunken hands.


(For those who delve deeper, I didn't care to format the line tabs here, as I feel there's enough for you to digest without them)

Wow. "Don't drink and drive", huh?

And yes, I learned some new vocabulary words today.

Indeed...

Thankfully the subject and the author are not the same.

That was very good Pale Horse. Yesterday I put one of my own in the thread about obsessions. Very simple compared to yours. Here is another:

The Sea

Of all to be said
In every possible way
From the ocean's bed
To the sunstruck spray,
Its shifting currents
Winding as thoughts,
On our souls warrants
To arrest, not our fall,
But to submerge into text
And all thought and writ
And become as before
Not doomed as the next,
Who've yet to fall back
Under sea beyond shore.

I can write poetry! I can!

*ahemmm...*



The Greatest Poem Ever Written Ever

This guy Pale Horse, well, he took a course, on writing with rhyme and wit.
But nobody here, except that one about beer, could grasp the meaning of it.

They'd sit and they'd stare, they'd look in the air and some of their minds would wander.
They'd post and reply, most asking why, why were their thoughts torn asunder!

He'd laugh with a jest, "I'm better than the rest!" He'd say with a smile so wide.
But then along came a bloke, and well of him he spoke, "He may be the best!" he cried.

"Every word that he uses, every instance, every chance.. all of them are great, all of them dance!"
"My heart fills with hope, elated and free, there's brilliance in his verse," he'd loudly decree!

Then came the others, they'd join in his praises, to Finn and to Deckard to all it amazes!
Not one, not two, no not even three, one hundred and one cheers and all could agree!

"No Ticket you're great! No Ticket you're grand!" But the last line of his poetry got himself banned.

Intriguing poem Pale Horse!

Mickiana and No Ticket your poems are fantastic!

Riptides, just when you think your out, they pull you ....

Wait, wrong thread. and concept as it were.

Mickiana, Said That is a superb poem in it's simplicy, though on two readings, the Genesis murder seems a bit abrupt. Would you consider a different image, less tragic, albeit moral?

Or am I reading it wrong.

Very good, Pale Horse, you are the first one to have seen the analogy. You are right in that it is abrupt in its ending. It's not something I planned because I rarely plan a poem. Most of what I write is whimsical. I get a concept come into my head and, if I remember it by the time I get home, I will just write something down. I seem to do abrupt changes at the end which has been described as a 'twist'. And thanks Indy Chic for the praises, although I don't think a great deal of my stuff. It's all very simple. When I read the biggies, my mind boggles. Shakespeare, Milton, Whitman, Cummings and everyone else, well their stuff soars. But here's another little one:

Closer

Our two bodies pressed together
Lips locked rebreathing breath
Strangler fig limbs entwined
Heat fiercely rising between
Attempt to melt into each other
Bittersweet, tragic and beautifully
Impossible.

Since everyone's writing poems, take a look at this poem I wrote at the IMDb, in regards to the various negative fan reactions to the KOTCS trailer:

Now this is a story of CGI pants,
In a film filled with MILFs and big giant ants.
The trailer debuted to a whole lotta hype,
But fans had to *****, moan and gripe.

Computers should be banned, and declared illegal,
because CGI is the root of all evil.
And Shia LaBeouf, oh how you've ruined my life!
Says the fanboy who'll never know the touch of a wife.

Where's Sallah, or Willie, or dad or Short Round?
Instead we get Shia, his lines will abound!
Harry, you're old! And George, you're a hack!
Take us back to the old days of The Empire Strikes Back!

Aside from all that, the trailer's a hit,
And Indy still thinks he's too old for this ****.

Pale you can just say,

She was a 10 at 2 and a 2 at 10

Adamwankenobi, that was a classic. Someone should send a copy to Lucas et al, anonymously of course.

roundshort said:

Pale you can just say,

She was a 10 at 2 and a 2 at 10

Click to expand...

chuckle, yes yes. I most certainly can.

Chuckle.

At the risk of being hijacked and closed, here is the table where your poetry, any poetry can be posted and critiqued or acclaimed. It's that table in the bar, where staunch, greasy neat haired Oxford shirt wearing types like me, like to sit and quaff the life of words while we look down our noses at everyone else.

It's not a place to sit and camp, just come on over, order a shot of alliterating onomatopoeia, and post away.

I'll start, (he said modestly)...

?OASIS?

I stand chaste
in the rays reflected
from Selene's eye
and watch as
Alyssum emerges from
the brine soaked
strand of desert
to which I am host.
I feast on the clapping
which fills the firmament;
and these echoes remind me
of the audience
that has abandoned me
alone on this stage.

Apologies, if this question sounds slightly remiss
but didn't you already start a thread like this?

Sort of, but I think that some poets were reluctant to post in this thread because of the title. This makes it open to everyone...not just that "horses ass" moderator

This is how I've heard my father recite it at family gatherings, I have found similar variation published as "The Irish Pig" as orally collected in Dublin. So thus, I can't claim it as my own.

It was a day in September,
A day that I'll remember,
While staggering home with a belly-full of manly pride,
When my feet began to studder,
And I sat down in the gutter,
And a pig came by,
And sat down by my side.

We talked about the weather,
And sang some songs together
When a lady-passerby was heard to say:
"You can tell a man who boozes
By the company he chooses",
And that pig got up
And slowly walked away.

keeping it rolling....

Sonnet 13

I?ll spin a tale of horror and suspense:
My lover?s heart is black with lies and vice!
A cuckold **** will always pay the price
For drubbing blind without due recompense.
Bamboozled by a jaded gaze intense,
She kissed my cheek before I answered thrice;
My fate was sealed by her deceptive guise,
When I pulled out my base of moral sense.
This foul injustice grows unchecked each day,
For actions sown in angst will show their twin.
Her egoist deceit won?t be concealed.
When blacked heart compels she must obey
and bearing down she pushes out her sin.
I look into my rivals eyes revealed.

Surreal prose.

Tea without the ring -ding
up and down the side,
creamy tasty sliptops
served with mother's pride,
everybody clappy
groom the thank you bride,
tea without the ring -ding
up and down the side.


(Make of it what you will.)



Tea For Two by herr gruber.

Tea for two is sweet, indeed
but not as sweet as us,
I couldn't afford the cab fare
I had to take the bus,
I'd like to order biscuits
but I shan't create a fuss
tea for two is sweet, indeed
but not as sweet as us.

It's a birthday poem, people. Come on now.....

Here: dies Jovis, in camera

I wipe the ephemeral sleep from my eyes
and respire the desiccated air of
seven months of sun.

The foil obscuring my breakfast smiles brightly at me
but I can't ingest the ration today.
For thirteen Hundred
five hundred
and fifteen days,
I quaffed the sanguine nourishment of vivacity
but I can not stomach it's vanity

today.

I am the insincere skeleton
for smarmy eulogies to hang their hats on;
obliging myself to their temporal duplicity.

Today

I yen for the Zen of a perfectly
counter-pointed composition;
to soar above the notes of cacophony.

I beseech Ceres for the savory
satisfaction that only manna can bring;
and consume it's life.

I covet the suffering of
transient intimacy;
to melt in the coldness of it's valor.

I ogle the glee of the actual pleasure
that comes from being,
the way Eve's eyes ached for the apple.

But alas, the only bouquet that hangs with me
is the desiccated air of seven month sun, and
I wipe the ephemeral sleep back into my eyes.

There's poets here, I just have to find them....