Whether it's your first Bonnaroo or you’re a music festival veteran, we welcome you to Inforoo.
Here you'll find info about artists, rumors, camping tips, and the infamous Roo Clues. Have a look around then create an account and join in the fun. See you at Bonnaroo!!
I know we post and can get a feel what our fellow inforooers are really like but poetry can say so much about a person. I feel if we all posted one of our favorite poems it would help everyone have a better understanding of who we are. Also, it would be nice to come across some new poetry supplied by inforoo members.
Bluebird Charles Bukowski
there's a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out but I'm too tough for him, I say, stay in there, I'm not going to let anybody see you.
there's a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out but I pur whiskey on him and inhale cigarette smoke and the whores and the bartenders and the grocery clerks never know that he's in there.
there's a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out but I'm too tough for him, I say, stay down, do you want to mess me up? you want to screw up the works? you want to blow my book sales in Europe?
there's a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out but I'm too clever, I only let him out at night sometimes when everybody's asleep. I say, I know that you're there, so don't be sad. then I put him back, but he's singing a little in there, I haven't quite let him die and we sleep together like that with our secret pact and it's nice enough to make a man weep, but I don't weep, do you?
I can't pick just one. It's impossible. Anything by Roethke, Dickinson, or Rossetti...and "Janet Waking" by John Crowe Ransom...and "Skunk Hour" by Robert Lowell... and "This Was Once a Love Poem" by Jane Hirshfield...and, I'm a poetry nerd.
The Geranium By Theodore Roethke
When I put her out, once, by the garbage pail, She looked so limp and bedraggled, So foolish and trusting, like a sick poodle, Or a wizened aster in late September, I brought her back in again For a new routine-- Vitamins, water, and whatever Sustenance seemed sensible At the time: she'd lived So long on gin, bobbie pins, half-smoked cigars, dead beer, Her shriveled petals falling On the faded carpet, the stale Steak grease stuck to her fuzzy leaves. (Dried-out, she creaked like a tulip.)
The things she endured!-- The dumb dames shrieking half the night Or the two of us, alone, both seedy, Me breathing booze at her, She leaning out of her pot toward the window.
Near the end, she seemed almost to hear me-- And that was scary-- So when that snuffling cretin of a maid Threw her, pot and all, into the trash-can, I said nothing.
But I sacked the presumptuous hag the next week, I was that lonely.
Janet Waking By John Crowe Ransom
Beautifully Janet slept Till it was deeply morning. She woke then And thought about her dainty-feathered hen, To see how it had kept.
One kiss she gave her mother, Only a small one gave she to her daddy Who would have kissed each curl of his shining baby; No kiss at all for her brother.
“Old Chucky, Old Chucky!” she cried, Running on little pink feet upon the grass To Chucky’s house, and listening. But alas, Her Chucky had died.
It was a transmogrifying bee Came droning down on Chucky’s old bald head And sat and put the poison. It scarcely bled, But how exceedingly
And purply did the knot Swell with the venom and communicate Its rigour! Now the poor comb stood up straight But Chucky did not.
So there was Janet Kneeling on the wet grass, crying her brown hen (Translated far beyond the daughters of men) To rise and walk upon it.
And weeping fast as she had breath Janet implored us, “Wake her from her sleep!” And would not be instructed in how deep Was the forgetful kingdom of death.
This Was Once a Love Poem by Jane Hirshfield
This was once a love poem, before its haunches thickened, its breath grew short, before it found itself sitting, perplexed and a little embarrassed, on the fender of a parked car, while many people passed by without turning their heads. It remembers itself dressing as if for a great engagement. It remembers choosing these shoes, this scarf or tie. Once, it drank beer for breakfast, drifted its feet in a river side by side with the feet of another. Once it pretended shyness, then grew truly shy, dropping its head so the hair would fall forward, so the eyes would not be seen. IT spoke with passion of history, of art. It was lovely then, this poem. Under its chin, no fold of skin softened. Behind the knees, no pad of yellow fat. What it knew in the morning it still believed at nightfall. An unconjured confidence lifted its eyebrows, its cheeks. The longing has not diminished. Still it understands. It is time to consider a cat, the cultivation of African violets or flowering cactus. Yes, it decides: Many miniature cacti, in blue and red painted pots. When it finds itself disquieted by the pure and unfamiliar silence of its new life, it will touch them—one, then another— with a single finger outstretched like a tiny flame.
Post by ClarkGriswold on May 9, 2008 23:20:14 GMT -5
I Meant To Do My Work Today by Richard LeGallienne
I meant to do my work today, But a brown bird sang in the apple tree, And a butterfly flitted across the field, And all the leaves were calling me. And the wind went sighing over the land, Tossing the grasses to and fro, And a rainbow held out its shining hand, So what could I do but laugh and go.
Post by cajuninsaudi on May 9, 2008 23:50:28 GMT -5
The Sons of Martha Rudyard Kipling 1907
The sons of Mary seldom bother, for they have inherited that good part; But the Sons of Martha favour their Mother of the careful soul and the troubled heart. And because she lost her temper once, and because she was rude to the Lord her Guest, Her Sons must wait upon Mary's Sons, world without end, reprieve, or rest. It is their care in all the ages to take the buffet and cushion the shock. It is their care that the gear engages; it is their care that the switches lock. It is their care that the wheels run truly; it is their care to embark and entrain, Tally, transport, and deliver duly the Sons of Mary by land and main.
They say to mountains, "Be ye removed." They say to the lesser floods, "Be dry." Under their rods are the rocks reproved-they are not afraid of that which is high. Then do the hill-tops shake to the summit-then is the bed of the deep laid bare, That the Sons of Mary may overcome it, pleasantly sleeping and unaware. They finger death at their gloves' end where they piece and repiece the living wires. He rears against the gates they tend: they feed him hungry behind their fires. Early at dawn, ere men see clear, they stumble into his terrible stall, And hale him forth a haltered steer, and goad and turn him till evenfall. To these from birth is Belief forbidden; from these till death is Relief afar. They are concerned with matters hidden - under the earthline their altars are- The secret fountains to follow up, waters withdrawn to restore to the mouth, And gather the floods as in a cup, and pour them again at a city's drouth.
They do not preach that their God will rouse them a little before the nuts work loose. They do not teach that His Pity allows them to drop their job when they dam'-well choose. As in the thronged and the lighted ways, so in the dark and the desert they stand, Wary and watchful all their days that their brethren's day may be long in the land.
Raise ye the stone or cleave the wood to make a path more fair or flat - Lo, it is black already with blood some Son of Martha spilled for that! Not as a ladder from earth to Heaven, not as a witness to any creed, But simple service simply given to his own kind in their common need.
And the Sons of Mary smile and are blessed - they know the Angels are on their side. They know in them is the Grace confessed, and for them are the Mercies multiplied. They sit at the Feet - they hear the Word - they see how truly the Promise runs. They have cast their burden upon the Lord, and - the Lord He lays it on Martha's Sons!
Post by purplefuzzystuff on May 10, 2008 0:00:45 GMT -5
I officially love this thread. My favorite poem is 'Enoch Arden' by Alfred Lord Tennyson, but it's very, very long so I won't post it. My favorite book of poetry is in a box in NC,I will get it next week and find my favorite shorter poem to contribute to this lovely thread
Post by luciddream5 on May 10, 2008 1:57:27 GMT -5
This isn't my favorite poem, but one of the best I have written.
It Is Our Apologies
It is apologies that run like water: that dodge the stars like hurdles and soak cold blood in towels of silk.
In two words, I realign with my greatest endeavor, never intended, never expected.
The endeavor was this: Peace shattered into one thousand jigsaws and i assemble them to the sound of your breathing (think locomotive or tram-it is not one man's jazz or other fancy nor metronome or tick-tock clock, it is the boldest of our motions in the lightest of our thoughts.) Peace falls like the scent of lavender in the heat of autumn.
If I am to be contented, let it be now in my greatest of guilts; because with every passing apology, I run further this race standing still.
Glad to see such a positive response to the thread. Really enjoy the poems so far hope to see the list continue to grow. Karma when I can to those who have posted poems so far!
Post by tehoemusic on May 12, 2008 17:37:40 GMT -5
You probably all know this one but it's my absolute favorite words of all time!!
BOB DYLAN- "It's Alright Ma, I'm Only Bleeding"
Darkness at the break of noon Shadows even the silver spoon The handmade blade, the child's balloon Eclipses both the sun and moon To understand you know too soon There is no sense in trying.
Pointed threats, they bluff with scorn Suicide remarks are torn From the fool's gold mouthpiece The hollow horn plays wasted words Proves to warn That he not busy being born Is busy dying.
Temptation's page flies out the door You follow, find yourself at war Watch waterfalls of pity roar You feel to moan but unlike before You discover That you'd just be One more person crying.
So don't fear if you hear A foreign sound to your ear It's alright, Ma, I'm only sighing.
As some warn victory, some downfall Private reasons great or small Can be seen in the eyes of those that call To make all that should be killed to crawl While others say don't hate nothing at all Except hatred.
Disillusioned words like bullets bark As human gods aim for their mark Made everything from toy guns that spark To flesh-colored Christs that glow in the dark It's easy to see without looking too far That not much Is really sacred.
While preachers preach of evil fates Teachers teach that knowledge waits Can lead to hundred-dollar plates Goodness hides behind its gates But even the president of the United States Sometimes must have To stand naked.
An' though the rules of the road have been lodged It's only people's games that you got to dodge And it's alright, Ma, I can make it.
Advertising signs that con you Into thinking you're the one That can do what's never been done That can win what's never been won Meantime life outside goes on All around you.
You lose yourself, you reappear You suddenly find you got nothing to fear Alone you stand with nobody near When a trembling distant voice, unclear Startles your sleeping ears to hear That somebody thinks They really found you.
A question in your nerves is lit Yet you know there is no answer fit to satisfy Insure you not to quit To keep it in your mind and not fergit That it is not he or she or them or it That you belong to.
Although the masters make the rules For the wise men and the fools I got nothing, Ma, to live up to.
For them that must obey authority That they do not respect in any degree Who despise their jobs, their destinies Speak jealously of them that are free Cultivate their flowers to be Nothing more than something They invest in.
While some on principles baptized To strict party platform ties Social clubs in drag disguise Outsiders they can freely criticize Tell nothing except who to idolize And then say God bless him.
While one who sings with his tongue on fire Gargles in the rat race choir Bent out of shape from society's pliers Cares not to come up any higher But rather get you down in the hole That he's in.
But I mean no harm nor put fault On anyone that lives in a vault But it's alright, Ma, if I can't please him.
Old lady judges watch people in pairs Limited in sex, they dare To push fake morals, insult and stare While money doesn't talk, it swears Obscenity, who really cares Propaganda, all is phony.
While them that defend what they cannot see With a killer's pride, security It blows the minds most bitterly For them that think death's honesty Won't fall upon them naturally Life sometimes Must get lonely.
My eyes collide head-on with stuffed graveyards False gods, I scuff At pettiness which plays so rough Walk upside-down inside handcuffs Kick my legs to crash it off Say okay, I have had enough What else can you show me?
And if my thought-dreams could be seen They'd probably put my head in a guillotine But it's alright, Ma, it's life, and life only.
Post by tehoemusic on May 12, 2008 17:42:26 GMT -5
I write myself...constantly. I have hundreds of poems and songs I have written during my life. Here are a few recent ones.
"As We All Die Comfortably"
Society coils ‘round the earth like ivy snakes around the trees And the venom paralyzes life, as its last attempt to breathe… Exhaled into the starry skies with all tomorrow’s children’s dreams
These cryptic intuitions…kiss you and rob you blind All these chameleon politicians in the forest of mankind And the river flows past the churchyard where angels and devils cry
Will the children of the morning See the nighttime come around There all watching this old world spin around And they look amongst the people They’ve come to meet a common ground They were watching this old world spin around
(Chorus) How could this be? Do my eyes deceive me? Well, I see us twisting Why don’t they believe me? Get us angry So we can be happy As we all die comfortably
The king swallowed the world, now were all living off the waste With generations of starving nations who never learned to taste And the savior drops his arrow and bow; left dishonored and disgraced
From the comets of creation and the canyons of rebirth To the endless seas and galaxies of all that we are worth The hands of time fully entwined the love of mother earth
As the autumn leaves are weeping The midnight train rolls into town Passengers watching this old world spin around I dreamt that I was crying But I never made a sound I was watching this old world spin around
(Chorus) How could this be? Do my eyes deceive me? Well, I see us twisting Why don’t they believe me? Get us angry So we can be happy As we all die comfortably
(Bridge) Take a hard look in the mirror At the lines on your face The further you look the answers clearer We can all reveal the mysteries—
(Chorus) How could this be? Do my eyes deceive me? Well, I see us twisting. Why don’t they believe me? Get us angry! So we can be happy! As we all die comfortably…
-J. Conlon (Me)
and I also wrote this recently...
American Chains
Take away these American chains Leave the American flag out in the American rain All these American Idols with their American fame History will prove them as American shame
Run away from American skies Take your American pills with some American pie Let these American heroes tell American lies To die with guns in their hands like good Americans die
Ohh, these American ways
Fashion yourself in slick American dress With your American cars and American Express File in line with all those ladies and gents Who fly American Airlines in American jets
Wash away the bloodstains off of American floors Buy some American sex at the old American store Open your thighs and fantasize of the American whore Wipe the scum from your lip and then ask for some more
Ohh, these American days
Whatever happened to my American girl? Her ghostlike, lifeless face as pale as a pearl Her body lies naked as vultures circle and swirl While American boots trample all over this world
American schools teaching your family Of American values and philosophies Allow mass murdering gluttonous military To steal American grads of American academies
Ohh, there all American made
Like American Indians; all history wiped clean With white American beauty and twilight’s last gleam Enjoy the American broadcast on the American smokescreen Then close your eyes and fall asleep through the American dream
Take away these American chains This American cheese, cigarettes and ball games The American Revolution will rise once again To take away all of these American chains
I'm glad there's some other poetry lovers on Inforoo! I love reading and writing poems... problem is, I've always been way too critical of my work, despite all the praise I may get.
Here's a few (the first one is fairly long, but it's well worth the read):
Let us go then, you and I, When the evening is spread out against the sky Like a patient etherised upon a table; Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets, The muttering retreats Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells: Streets that follow like a tedious argument Of insidious intent To lead you to an overwhelming question … Oh, do not ask, “What is it?” Let us go and make our visit.
In the room the women come and go Talking of Michelangelo.
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes, The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening, Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains, Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys, Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap, And seeing that it was a soft October night, Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
And indeed there will be time For the yellow smoke that slides along the street, Rubbing its back upon the window-panes; There will be time, there will be time To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet; There will be time to murder and create, And time for all the works and days of hands That lift and drop a question on your plate; Time for you and time for me, And time yet for a hundred indecisions, And for a hundred visions and revisions, Before the taking of a toast and tea.
In the room the women come and go Talking of Michelangelo.
And indeed there will be time To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?” Time to turn back and descend the stair, With a bald spot in the middle of my hair— [They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”] My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin, My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin— [They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”] Do I dare Disturb the universe? In a minute there is time For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
For I have known them all already, known them all:— Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons, I have measured out my life with coffee spoons; I know the voices dying with a dying fall Beneath the music from a farther room. So how should I presume?
And I have known the eyes already, known them all— The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase, And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin, When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall, Then how should I begin To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways? And how should I presume?
And I have known the arms already, known them all— Arms that are braceleted and white and bare [But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!] It is perfume from a dress That makes me so digress? Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl. And should I then presume? And how should I begin? . . . . . Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?…
I should have been a pair of ragged claws Scuttling across the floors of silent seas. . . . . . And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully! Smoothed by long fingers, Asleep … tired … or it malingers, Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me. Should I, after tea and cakes and ices, Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis? But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed, Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter, I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter; I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker, And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker, And in short, I was afraid.
And would it have been worth it, after all, After the cups, the marmalade, the tea, Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me, Would it have been worth while, To have bitten off the matter with a smile, To have squeezed the universe into a ball To roll it toward some overwhelming question, To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead, Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”— If one, settling a pillow by her head, Should say: “That is not what I meant at all. That is not it, at all.”
And would it have been worth it, after all, Would it have been worth while, After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets, After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor— And this, and so much more?— It is impossible to say just what I mean! But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen: Would it have been worth while If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl, And turning toward the window, should say: “That is not it at all, That is not what I meant, at all.” . . . . . No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be; Am an attendant lord, one that will do To swell a progress, start a scene or two, Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool, Deferential, glad to be of use, Politic, cautious, and meticulous; Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse; At times, indeed, almost ridiculous— Almost, at times, the Fool.
I grow old … I grow old … I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach? I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach. I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves Combing the white hair of the waves blown back When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
---T.S. Eliot, "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"
I have eaten the plums that were in the icebox
and which you were probably saving for breakfast.
Forgive me they were delicious so sweet and so cold.
---William Carlos Williams, "This Is Just To Say"
Whenever Richard Cory went down town, We people on the pavement looked at him: He was a gentleman from sole to crown, Clean favored, and imperially slim.
And he was always quietly arrayed, And he was always human when he talked; But still he fluttered pulses when he said, "Good-morning," and he glittered when he walked.
And he was rich—yes, richer than a king, And admirably schooled in every grace: In fine, we thought that he was everything To make us wish that we were in his place.
So on we worked, and waited for the light, And went without the meat, and cursed the bread; And Richard Cory, one calm summer night, Went home and put a bullet through his head.
You just listed 3 more of my favorite poems in one shot. Karma for that. Major karma.
"I have measured out my life with coffee spoons" - one of my all time favorite lines in poetry
Have to post this one now. It speaks to me in so many ways.
Skunk Hour By Robert Lowell
Nautilus Island's hermit heiress still lives through winter in her Spartan cottage; her sheep still graze above the sea. Her son's a bishop. Her farmer is first selectman in our village; she's in her dotage.
Thirsting for the hierarchic privacy of Queen Victoria's century, she buys up all the eyesores facing her shore, and lets them fall.
The season's ill-- we've lost our summer millionaire, who seemed to leap from an L. L. Bean catalogue. His nine-knot yawl was auctioned off to lobstermen. A red fox stain covers Blue Hill.
And now our fairy decorator brightens his shop for fall; his fishnet's filled with orange cork, orange, his cobbler's bench and awl; there is no money in his work, he'd rather marry.
One dark night, my Tudor Ford climbed the hill's skull; I watched for love-cars. Lights turned down, they lay together, hull to hull, where the graveyard shelves on the town. . . . My mind's not right.
A car radio bleats, "Love, O careless Love. . . ." I hear my ill-spirit sob in each blood cell, as if my hand were at its throat. . . . I myself am hell; nobody's here--
only skunks, that search in the moonlight for a bite to eat. They march on their soles up Main Street: white stripes, moonstruck eyes' red fire under the chalk-dry and spar spire of the Trinitarian Church.
I stand on top of our back steps and breathe the rich air-- a mother skunk with her column of kittens swills the garbage pail. She jabs her wedge-head in a cup of sour cream, drops her ostrich tail, and will not scare.
Post by tammy4peace on May 13, 2008 13:13:29 GMT -5
tehoemusic-
Your 'American Chains' is incredible! Thanks for sharing. You have a true gift with words.
Here's something I wrote almost 20 years ago.
Forever is a word, Given to time without an end. Yet in the game we play, Forever has become a trend. It is used when saying I'll love you, But it simply isn't true. Because no one knows where forever goes, Or what forever will do. And a promise can't be made, On the grounds of forever; For without the slightest warning, It could turn into never. Leaving forever- Just a word, Given to time without an end.
You just listed 3 more of my favorite poems in one shot. Karma for that. Major karma.
"I have measured out my life with coffee spoons" - one of my all time favorite lines in poetry
Thanks! I love your poem too, it'd been far too long since I last read it. The coffee spoons line is great, but my personal favorite from that poem (and one of my all-time favorites) is: "I should have been a pair of ragged claws Scuttling across the floors of silent seas"
I just think it's an amazing line; it conjures up such an amazing visual so eloquently. And haven't we all felt like that at some point? God, I wish I could write like that. I'm a very visual learner (in that I picture everything in my head when I read things), and I was wracking my brain for about ten minutes last night trying to remember the name of the poem where there was yellow smoke against window panes. For some reason, that image always stuck out in my head. I would post some of my own, but unfortunately my computer crashed last month and I lost all my files
Anyway, here's some more:
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone, Silence the pianos and with muffled drum Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead, Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves, Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West, My working week and my Sunday rest, My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now: put out every one; Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun; Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood. For nothing now can ever come to any good. ---W.H. Auden, "Stop All the Clocks"
Well, son, I'll tell you: Life for me ain't been no crystal stair. It's had tacks in it, And splinters, And boards torn up, And places with no carpet on the floor -- Bare. But all the time I'se been a-climbin' on, And reachin' landin's, And turnin' corners, And sometimes goin' in the dark Where there ain't been no light. So boy, don't you turn back. Don't you set down on the steps 'Cause you finds it's kinder hard. Don't you fall now -- For I'se still goin', honey, I'se still climbin', And life for me ain't been no crystal stair.
---Langston Hughes, "Mother to Son"
I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they Out-did the sparkling waves in glee; A poet could not but be gay, In such a jocund company; I gazed—and gazed—but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils. ---William Wordsworth, "I Wandered Lonely As A Cloud"
I'll post some more when I think of them.
Last Edit: May 13, 2008 13:20:10 GMT -5 by jack324 - Back to Top
Your 'American Chains' is incredible! Thanks for sharing. You have a true gift with words.
Here's something I wrote almost 20 years ago.
Forever is a word, Given to time without an end. Yet in the game we play, Forever has become a trend. It is used when saying I'll love you, But it simply isn't true. Because no one knows where forever goes, Or what forever will do. And a promise can't be made, On the grounds of forever; For without the slightest warning, It could turn into never. Leaving forever- Just a word, Given to time without an end.
Tammy
Peace2u......Tammy
Thanks so much for the kind words, Tammy. I enjoyed your poem as well. KARMA 2 U!! Thanks everyone for reading! Here is one more recent one I've written:
"Smiling Yellow Today"
The truth is analytical Dissent is unforgivable The morals are political The lines are blurred with rain
The mission bells are musical The politics are cynical The fight brought home is physical And I can’t stand the pain
You wrote me just to say You remembered to forget my name…
All these waves on fallen bridges Wobbly legs on balance beams All these churches and these prisons Reveal tomorrow in dreams
You’re smiling yellow today But will tomorrow be the same? I’d love to stay but I must be on my way—
The child’s eyes are whimsical Their questions reached their pinnacles They’ll drop half-eaten popsicles And watch innocence melt
If you pray, you’ll need a miracle Because the demigods are fanatical And if your plans are practical Send them straight down to hell
I’ve got nothing left to say Now that nothing is the same If happiness is yellow then sadness must be gray
Do you remember how it was that day? All I can say is things have changed…
All these waves on fallen bridges Wobbly legs on balance beams All these churches and these prisons Reveal tomorrow in dreams
You’re smiling yellow today But will tomorrow be the same? I’d love to stay but I must be on my way—
Call me prolific as a poet Call me as powerful as a pawn Well, I’m nobody’s sunrise You won’t miss me when I’m gone Call me as selfish as a man Call me as angry as a child But I don’t quack with your sunshine So don’t you quack with mine…
All these waves on fallen bridges Wobbly legs on balance beams All these schools and all these prisons Reveal tomorrow in dreams
You’re smiling yellow today But will tomorrow be the same? I’d love to stay but I must be on my way—
Snap a picture of the sunset in my rearview mirror There’s a dark sky dead ahead…
Post by tehoemusic on May 13, 2008 17:46:08 GMT -5
Why not another one of mine (if you care) ??? here ya go...
"Bright Enough"
The sun burns so bright, but it won’t for long Just about enough light for me to write this song But where the words came from After the funeral drum Life will go on and on
Well, we’re bright enough to know that we’re alive But not evolved enough to know it was all by surprise Just a coincidence A matter of circumstance How we all survived
I met a birthday girl with tears in her eyes The wickedness of the world made her little heart cry… For her sweet mother How I do love her Beyond the end of time
I find myself looking much higher now I used to look to the trees; I used to look to the ground… To look for wisdom Searching for the love That I haven’t found
To ride the blessed horse with the golden tail Down the destined course along the winding trail To where we can be free Across the shining sea I wish that we could sail
So, if you’re looking for truth, look into the air Well, I don’t know when but I’m going somewhere We could all get there And if you don’t know where I will take you there
I’m not talkin’ ‘bout expecting a god to appear There’s no devil to tempt; there’s no god to fear No heaven or hell No souls to sell Everything is right here
I said, we’re bright enough to have made it this far But not evolved enough to know who we are Maybe someday we’ll find… The answers sometime… Before we join the stars
-J. Conlon (Me)
And why not one more...
"Spit in the Wind"
Comment on the child The crumbling country has died The congressmen and medicine force-feeding inside The throats of all the willing, while civilians subscribe To transparent magazines
The gossip sent to breed along the telephone lines The conversations at the dinner tables unwind The controls connect the fantasy to adolescent minds As we spit out our destiny
Well, the wheel it turns The spangled banner burns The father slaps his own face with Conflicting interests He spits
The spoiled child of gluttony The last disconnect He gazes to the screen as the static reflects The soul of all hypocrisy and lost intellect A regret that we’ll all accept
The broadcast of persuasion begins to desensitize While the sun is burning brightly in their counterfeit eyes Obedience reigns supreme while rebellion complies As they regurgitate their lies
Well, blood flows at your feet In the gutters of Wall Street Blind justice is reduced to tears The blindfold covering her ears She fears
At dawn I’ll walk out And watch the morning sunrise Upon the smoldering wreckage where we held our heads high As the sirens echo from the interstate through the pines Another newborn baby cries
Rose petals snowing softly as a funeral drum Heard across the rotting farms where rusty rivers run Sends junior underneath the blanket, twiddling his thumbs Praying that daylight never comes
He blamed you for creating this Four horsemen of the apocalypse The honored soldier blows a kiss At the parade of independence As we spit We spit It splits Eclipsed
Post by ClarkGriswold on May 14, 2008 21:37:26 GMT -5
An excerpt from The Wolf That Lives In Lindsey by Joni Mitchell
If you're smart or rich or lucky Maybe you'll beat the laws of man But the inner laws of spirit And the outer laws of nature No man can No, no man can
This excerpt certainly isn’t eloquent, lofty, or ask the reader to feel a since of affirmation. It does pierce the darkness of truth and attempts to shed light on examination.
It’s always been one of my favorite Joni Mitchell lines, Please excuse a guy that enjoys a beer and begins to ramble. ClarkGriswold
I do not want to want, but I will always have the need, for a bit more honesty, from you, to help me see. To understand you all the more clearly, let go of your fear, and learn to trust the, hope that there is still true generosity, left in this world, and that some long to be, free from all the selfishness and greed. This is the only thing I really want for me.
Post by pondo ROCKS on Jan 5, 2009 16:05:52 GMT -5
One of my favorites I have written (Already published last year)
Most People
Most people spend their day going to work. To a job they loathe and with people they hate.
Most people spend their day communicating with these hated souls, knowing they will never be like them or want to be like them.
Most people spend their day doing mind-numbing tasks, similar to the gerbil on his wheel in his cage.
Most people spend their day pleasing other people, knowing they are not true friends but spineless insects who come and go without a conscience.
Most people spend their hours searching for a reason to go on, thus turning to alcohol or drugs to ease the pain of the hellish nightmare that is their life.
Most people spend their lives in this manor, thinking that someday it will get better.
Most people spend their last hours realizing they controlled it, finally understanding the power they never used.
Unlike most people, a select few get out while they still can, find their own rhythm, their own style and live life the way they want.
They are never understood by most people. They are looked down upon for being different, strange, and non-conformists. Most people try to bring them down to their level, desperate for them to join their misery.
Providing an outlet and a voice for music lovers to unite under the common theme of music for all. Join The Pondo Army to show your allegiance to musical freedom! Fighting for no censorship of the arts & music education in schools, The Pondo Army will triumph! The Pondo Army Movement
Follow me on twitter@Pondoknowsbest
pondo ROCKS
Bonnafunky Dirtyroo has viking horns and a clock
Providing an outlet and a voice for music lovers to unite under the common theme of music for all. Join The Pondo Army to show your allegiance to musical freedom! Fighting for no censorship of the arts & music education in schools, The Pondo Army will triumph! The Pondo Army Movement
Follow me on twitter@Pondoknowsbest
Post by steveternal on Jan 14, 2009 11:51:53 GMT -5
I'm not big on poetry-- it's something I greatly respect, but that always confounds me. Anyway, I subscribe to The New Yorker magazine, which includes a few poems in each issue. This is one in last week's issue, and it particularly stumped me. I was hoping some more poetically inclined folk could shed some light on it.
Alien vs. Predator
by Michael Robbins
Praise this world, Rilke says, the jerk. We’d stay up all night. Every angel’s berserk. Hell, if you slit monkeys for a living, you’d pray to me, too. I’m not so forgiving. I’m rubber, you’re glue.
That elk is such a dick. He’s a space tree making a ski and a little foam chiropractor. I set the controls, I pioneer the seeding of the ionosphere. I translate the Bible into velociraptor.
In front of Best Buy, the Tibetans are released, but where’s the whale on stilts that we were promised? I fight the comets, lick the moon, pave its lonely streets. The sandhill cranes make brains look easy.
I go by many names: Buju Banton, Camel Light, the New York Times. Point being, rickshaws in Scranton. I have few legs. I sleep on meat. I’d eat your bra—point being—in a heartbeat.
i spent six years in the USMC with deployments all across the globe.. throughout my time i wrote a lot of war poetry, this was one of my first..
Two brothers- by Sean Higgins
From a dead sleep the most chaotic week a life has ever seen- begins- two men, indirect fire bank gave way Euphrates river current too strong gear to heavy
Two men, dressed to kill on a mission to deliver a letter- explaining how 'they did one's best' Serving an unnecessary cause, but necessary to them, for things of Country and Corp run deep in their now ice cold veins
Two mothers, receive two flags, neatly folded changing life ever after Tears of- sadness, depression, and pride fall- from lost eyes
i spent six years in the USMC with deployments all across the globe.. throughout my time i wrote a lot of war poetry, this was one of my first..
Two brothers- by Sean Higgins
From a dead sleep the most chaotic week a life has ever seen- begins- two men, indirect fire bank gave way Euphrates river current too strong gear to heavy
Two men, dressed to kill on a mission to deliver a letter- explaining how 'they did one's best' Serving an unnecessary cause, but necessary to them, for things of Country and Corp run deep in their now ice cold veins
Two mothers, receive two flags, neatly folded changing life ever after Tears of- sadness, depression, and pride fall- from lost eyes
Post by ClarkGriswold on Jun 14, 2009 23:15:30 GMT -5
An excerpt from The Bewlay Brothers by David Bowie
And so the story goes they wore the clothes They said the things to make it seem improbable The whale of a lie like they hope it was And the Goodmen Tomorrow Had their feet in the wallow And their heads of Brawn were nicer shorn And how they bought their positions with saccharin and trust And the world was asleep to our latent fuss Sighing, the swirl through the streets Like the crust of the sun The Bewlay Brothers In our Wings that Bark Flashing teeth of Brass Standing tall in the dark Oh, And we were Gone Hanging out with your Dwarf Men We were so turned on By your lack of conclusions
I was Stone and he was Wax So he could scream, and still relax, unbelievable And we frightened the small children away And our talk was old and dust would flow Thru our veins and Lo! it was midnight Back at the kitchen door Like the grim face on the Cathedral floor And the solid book we wrote Cannot be found today And it was Stalking time for the Moonboys The Bewlay Brothers With our backs on the arch In the Devil-may-be-here But He can't sing about that Oh, And we were Gone Real Cool Traders We were so Turned On You thought we were Fakers
Now the dress is hung, the ticket pawned The Factor Max that proved the fact Is melted down And woven on the edging of my pillow Now my Brother lays upon the Rocks He could be dead, He could be not He could be You He's Chameleon, Comedian, Corinthian and Caricature Shooting-up Pie-in-the-Sky The Bewlay Brothers In the feeble and the Bad Bewlay Brothers In the Blessed and Cold In the Crutch-hungry Dark Was where we flayed our Mark Oh, and we were Gone Kings of Oblivion We were so Turned On In the Mind-Warp Pavilion
here ya go...
