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!!
Post by poopzilla33 on May 4, 2007 14:05:45 GMT -5
To Night
Swiftly walk o'er the western wave, Spirit of Night! Out of the misty eastern cave, Where, all the long and lone daylight, Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear, Which make thee terrible and dear-- Swift be thy flight!
Wrap thy form in a mantle gray, Star-inwrought! Blind with thine hair the eyes of day; Kiss her until she be wearied out, Then wander o'er city, and sea, and land, Touching all with thine opiate wand-- Come, long-sought!
When I arose and saw the dawn, I sighed for thee; When light rode high, and the dew was gone, And noon lay heavy on flower and tree, And the weary day turned to his rest, Lingering like an unloved guest, I sighed for thee.
Thy brother Death came, and cried, Wouldst thou me? Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed, Murmured like a noontide bee, Shall I nestle near thy side? Wouldst thou me?--And I replied, No, not thee!
Death will come when thou art dead, Soon, too soon-- Sleep will come when thou art fled; Of neither would I ask the boon I ask of thee, beloved Night-- Swift be thine approaching flight, Come soon, soon!
Poetry... What a beautiful thing. When I think of great writers, Ireland is the first thing that comes to mind, so heres a poem from an Irishman who happens to be my biggest hero.
Unseen Sorrows- Bobby Sands
Her tears fall in the darkness as the rain falls in the night, Silvery tears like silvery rain, hidden out of sight, The stars fall from her eyes like floating petals from the sky,
Is there no one in all this world who hears this woman cry? A simple little floating dreamy thought has stired this womans heart, The golden sleepy dream of yesterdays before they were apart, What comfort can there be found for a petal so fair and slim Alone in a forest dark of sorrow she weeps again for him?
Warm silver rolling tears blemish a once complexion fair, That once shown in the fairest radiance midst a cloak of golden hair. And the children whimper and cry for a father's care and love they've never known, Who sees their little tears of innocent years as the winds of time are blown?
What sorrow will you know tonight when all the worlds asleep, When through the darkness comes the wind that cuts the heart so deep, For there is no one there to dry your tears or your childrens tears who cling around your frock, When there has been another bloody slaughter in the dungeons of H Block
"They won't break me because the desire for freedom, and the freedom of the Irish people, is in my heart. The day will dawn when all the people of Ireland will have the desire for freedom to show. It is then that we will see the rising of the moon."
another hero of mine Padraig Pearse, a revolutionary and a poet...
The Wayfarer by Padraic Pearse
The beauty of the world hath made me sad, This beauty that will pass; Sometimes my heart hath shaken with great joy To see a leaping squirrel in a tree, Or a red lady-bird upon a stalk, Or little rabbits in a field at evening, Lit by a slanting sun, Or some green hill where shadows drifted by Some quiet hill where mountainy man hath sown And soon would reap; near to the gate of Heaven; Or children with bare feet upon the sands Of some ebbed sea, or playing on the streets Of little towns in Connacht, Things young and happy. And then my heart hath told me: These will pass, Will pass and change, will die and be no more, Things bright and green, things young and happy; And I have gone upon my way Sorrowful.
The Mother by Padraic Pearse
I do not grudge them: Lord, I do not grudge My two strong sons that I have seen go out To break their strength and die, they and a few, In bloody protest for a glorious thing, They shall be spoken of among their people, The generations shall remember them, And call them blessed; But I will speak their names to my own heart In the long nights; The little names that were familiar once Round my dead hearth. Lord, thou art hard on mothers: We suffer in their coming and their going; And tho' I grudge them not, I weary, weary Of the long sorrow---And yet I have my joy: My sons were faithful, and they fought.
"They won't break me because the desire for freedom, and the freedom of the Irish people, is in my heart. The day will dawn when all the people of Ireland will have the desire for freedom to show. It is then that we will see the rising of the moon."
Post by hippiehippieshake on May 6, 2007 20:11:23 GMT -5
a poem about bonnarooo? . . .
the morning comes to consciousness of faint stale smells of beer from the sawdust-trampled streets with all its muddy feet that press to early coffee-stands. with the other masquerades that time resumes, one thinks of all the hands that are raising dingy shades in a thousand furnished rooms
i'm going where the sun keeps shining, thru' the pouring rain, going where the weather suits my clothes. backing off of the north east wind, sailing on summer breeze, and skipping over the ocean like a stone.
Post by hippiehippieshake on May 6, 2007 20:21:55 GMT -5
poopzilla33 said:
Forgotten Language by Shel Silverstein
Once I spoke the language of the flowers, Once I understood each word the caterpillar said, Once I smiled in secret at the gossip of the starlings, And shared a conversation with the housefly in my bed. Once I heard and answered all the questions of the crickets, And joined the crying of each falling dying flake of snow, Once I spoke the language of the flowers. . . . How did it go? How did it go?
so beautiful. thanks poopzilla. shel silverstein is truly one of the greatest poets and artists of our lifetime. my career goal for many years was to be a female version of him.
i'm going where the sun keeps shining, thru' the pouring rain, going where the weather suits my clothes. backing off of the north east wind, sailing on summer breeze, and skipping over the ocean like a stone.
CCRGMac
Showerless Shakedown Vendor Smire Felsgood, Attorney at Law
Thanks to Garrison Keillor for keeping this guy on public radio:
the lanyard
The other day as I was ricocheting slowly off the blue walls of this room bouncing from typewriter to piano from bookshelf to an envelope lying on the floor, I found myself in the "L" section of the dictionary where my eyes fell upon the word, Lanyard. No cookie nibbled by a French novelist could send one more suddenly into the past. A past where I sat at a workbench at a camp by a deep Adirondack lake learning how to braid thin plastic strips into a lanyard. A gift for my mother. I had never seen anyone use a lanyard. Or wear one, if that’s what you did with them. But that did not keep me from crossing strand over strand again and again until I had made a boxy, red and white lanyard for my mother. She gave me life and milk from her breasts, and I gave her a lanyard She nursed me in many a sick room, lifted teaspoons of medicine to my lips, set cold facecloths on my forehead then led me out into the airy light and taught me to walk and swim and I in turn presented her with a lanyard. "Here are thousands of meals" she said, "and here is clothing and a good education." "And here is your lanyard," I replied, "which I made with a little help from a counselor." "Here is a breathing body and a beating heart, strong legs, bones and teeth and two clear eyes to read the world." she whispered. "And here," I said, "is the lanyard I made at camp." "And here," I wish to say to her now, "is a smaller gift. Not the archaic truth, that you can never repay your mother, but the rueful admission that when she took the two-toned lanyard from my hands, I was as sure as a boy could be that this useless worthless thing I wove out of boredom would be enough to make us even."
Post by poopzilla33 on May 6, 2007 21:59:31 GMT -5
angel food
if the mattress was a table top and the bed sheet was a page we'd be written out like a couple of question marks my convex to your concave we'd be lying here at the end of a sentence that asks
are you ready now are you gonna glow in the dark are you gonna show me how
do you like to watch when water misbehaves do you like waves as the wind shifts and shifts again the sail smiles and gently slaps around the mast ballast ballast ballast
when you come to me come to me with cake in your pocket come to me nicely with that soft kinda cake that's mostly icing come to me ready and rude bring me angel food angel food
Post by hippiehippieshake on May 6, 2007 22:10:04 GMT -5
the children of the summer's end gathered in the dampened grass we played our songs and felt the london sky resting on our hands it was god's land it was ragged and naive it was heaven
touch, we touched the very soul of holding each and every life we claimed the very source of joy ran through it didn't, but it seemed that way i kissed a lot of people that day
oh, to capture just one drop of all the ecstasy that swept that afternoon to paint that love upon a white balloon
and fly it from the toppest top of all the tops that man has pushed beyond his brain satori must be something just the same
we scanned the skies with rainbow eyes and saw machines of every shape and size we talked with tall venusians passing through and peter tried to climb aboard but the captain shook his head and away they soared climbing through the ivory vibrant cloud someone passed some bliss among the crowd and we walked back to the road, unchained
the sun machine is coming down, and we're gonna have a party the sun machine is coming down, and we're gonna have a party the sun machine is coming down, and we're gonna have a party the sun machine is coming down, and we're gonna have a party
i'm going where the sun keeps shining, thru' the pouring rain, going where the weather suits my clothes. backing off of the north east wind, sailing on summer breeze, and skipping over the ocean like a stone.
Post by hippiehippieshake on May 6, 2007 22:20:44 GMT -5
sunny goodge street donovan
on the firefly platform on sunny goodge street a violent hash-smoker shook a chocolate machine bobbed in an eating scene. smashing into neon streets in their stillness smearing their eyes on the crazy kali goddess listenin' to sounds of mingus mellow fantastic. "my, my", they sigh, "my, my", they sigh. in dull house rooms with coloured lights swingin' strange music boxes sadly tinklin' drink in the sun shining all around you. "my, my", they sigh, "my, my", they sigh, mm mm. "my, my", they sigh, "my, my", they sigh. the magician, he sparkles in satin and velvet, you gaze at his splendour with eyes you've not used yet. i tell you his name is love, love, love. "my, my", they sigh, "my, my", they sigh. "my, my" - sigh.
i'm going where the sun keeps shining, thru' the pouring rain, going where the weather suits my clothes. backing off of the north east wind, sailing on summer breeze, and skipping over the ocean like a stone.
Post by poopzilla33 on May 7, 2007 14:36:28 GMT -5
Allen Ginsberg - A Supermarket In California
What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whit- man, for I walked down the sidestreets under the trees with a headache self-conscious looking at the full moon. In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went into the neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations! What peaches and what penumbras! Whole fam- ilies shopping at night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives in the avocados, babies in the tomatoes!--and you, García Lorca, what were you doing down by the watermelons?
I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber, poking among the meats in the refrigerator and eyeing the grocery boys. I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the pork chops? What price bananas? Are you my Angel? I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of cans following you, and followed in my imagination by the store detective. We strode down the open corridors together in our solitary fancy tasting artichokes, possessing every frozen delicacy, and never passing the cashier. Where are we going, Walt Whitman? The doors close in an hour. Which way does your beard point tonight? (I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the supermarket and feel absurd.) Will we walk all night through solitary streets? The trees add shade to shade, lights out in the houses, we'll both be lonely. Will we stroll dreaming ofthe lost America of love past blue automobiles in driveways, home to our silent cottage? Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage- teacher, what America did you have when Charon quit poling his ferry and you got out on a smoking bank and stood watching the boat disappear on the black waters of Lethe?
Post by kkrrissttinnaa on May 7, 2007 17:48:30 GMT -5
Here's an original. Read it like The Raven.
Once upon a sunny morning, on my face, the sun, adorning, Bold bright rays giving my eyes sweet pangs of light pain by the score– Then I grimaced, tasting awful breath that came from the falafel, F’lafel I had eaten, eaten very late the night before. Anyway, I heard a scratching, something at my bedroom door. “’Tis my cat, and nothing more.”
Hazily though I remember, t’happened in a warm September; And each separate bridge club member had her cards upon my floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow– card games plunge me into sorrow, Then I turned to the saguaro– given me by Mark McClure– The card game playing mailman whom his nametag names him Mark McClure– Named McClure for evermore.
But I digress– I looked around, and, sans the ladies on the ground, I noticed not a single thing to ease my fright– mentioned before. Rapidly my heard was beating; stubbornly I stood repeating, “Kitty-Cat’s in need of feeding, so she’s scratching at my door– All she needs is to be eating, so she’s scratching at my door. Scratching, like the day before.”
Verily, my heart grew braver, and, before my strength did waver, “Gals,” said I, “Please move your cards and let me through! Please, I implore! Haven’t you all heard the tapping, tapping leading into rapping? My liveliness: completely sapping from the tapping at the door– That very likely stems from a domestic creature on the floor.” Said they, “Sue, you’re such a bore.”
Presently they kept on playing; unsaid words seemed to be saying, “You are naught but just a bother. Restless thoughts naught but a bore!” “Sue,” they said, “You’re getting batty. Those words? Really said. By Patty! Even though they’re slightly catty, their message you cannot ignore.” Oh dear. Thought I. My mind is gone, like low-tide waves awash down-shore. My mind– writhing on the floor.
Then, in bouts of righteous anger, grabbing up a wooden hanger –Hanger that had held my lovely goose-down coat just moments yore– I swung the tool, heard it connect, with someone’s head, so I suspect. And fin’lly I got to elect to open up that horrid door. Then whom should I be facing, him with cat in hand, my Mark McClure! My McClure? Oh, nevermore!
excellent thread. i need to pay more attention to this section of the site. I write poetry alot and have aspired to be a writer for years. I don't really try to seek out my poetry to be published, though I should try harder. I will post a few poems I've written. I am always weary about posting my work to the internet, for it is far too easy to steal there. But I will post a few that have won me awards, and others I hold near and dear to me.
The first I will post, I wrote for my best friend, Brandon Tate, who died on December 29th, 2003, after a drug overdose he sufferred on Decembert 23rd, 2003. Brandon was my best friend of ten years, and went with me to numerous phish shows, as well as the first bonnaroo. I take him with me everywhere I go, and this is for him.
Shadows
The empty sound of silence echoes through the hall. Carries with it your sweet name, etched in moonlight on the wall. Shadows fall upon me and beckon me to call Out to your sweet spirit, that name upon the wall.
Distant, not forgotten, in dreams you remain. Laughing, sharing, singing, strumming, crying out in pain. The night, she brings you to me now, though it wish it were the same as just yesterday, where on my couch, we sat and watched the game.
But the night, she cannot beckon, she cannot call to the past. Moonlight cannot bring to me that which I long for at last. The night only brings with her the comfort that those whom we mourn, are still with us now in spirit, forever reborn.
Post by hippiehippieshake on May 7, 2007 23:30:03 GMT -5
gougeaway said:
excellent thread. i need to pay more attention to this section of the site. I write poetry alot and have aspired to be a writer for years. I don't really try to seek out my poetry to be published, though I should try harder. I will post a few poems I've written. I am always weary about posting my work to the internet, for it is far too easy to steal there. But I will post a few that have won me awards, and others I hold near and dear to me.
The first I will post, I wrote for my best friend, Brandon Tate, who died on December 29th, 2003, after a drug overdose he sufferred on Decembert 23rd, 2003. Brandon was my best friend of ten years, and went with me to numerous phish shows, as well as the first bonnaroo. I take him with me everywhere I go, and this is for him.
Shadows
The empty sound of silence echoes through the hall. Carries with it your sweet name, etched in moonlight on the wall. Shadows fall upon me and beckon me to call Out to your sweet spirit, that name upon the wall.
Distant, not forgotten, in dreams you remain. Laughing, sharing, singing, strumming, crying out in pain. The night, she brings you to me now, though it wish it were the same as just yesterday, where on my couch, we sat and watched the game.
But the night, she cannot beckon, she cannot call to the past. Moonlight cannot bring to me that which I long for at last. The night only brings with her the comfort that those whom we mourn, are still with us now in spirit, forever reborn.
i'm going where the sun keeps shining, thru' the pouring rain, going where the weather suits my clothes. backing off of the north east wind, sailing on summer breeze, and skipping over the ocean like a stone.
Once upon a sunny morning, on my face, the sun, adorning, Bold bright rays giving my eyes sweet pangs of light pain by the score– Then I grimaced, tasting awful breath that came from the falafel, F’lafel I had eaten, eaten very late the night before. Anyway, I heard a scratching, something at my bedroom door. “’Tis my cat, and nothing more.”
Hazily though I remember, t’happened in a warm September; And each separate bridge club member had her cards upon my floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow– card games plunge me into sorrow, Then I turned to the saguaro– given me by Mark McClure– The card game playing mailman whom his nametag names him Mark McClure– Named McClure for evermore.
But I digress– I looked around, and, sans the ladies on the ground, I noticed not a single thing to ease my fright– mentioned before. Rapidly my heard was beating; stubbornly I stood repeating, “Kitty-Cat’s in need of feeding, so she’s scratching at my door– All she needs is to be eating, so she’s scratching at my door. Scratching, like the day before.”
Verily, my heart grew braver, and, before my strength did waver, “Gals,” said I, “Please move your cards and let me through! Please, I implore! Haven’t you all heard the tapping, tapping leading into rapping? My liveliness: completely sapping from the tapping at the door– That very likely stems from a domestic creature on the floor.” Said they, “Sue, you’re such a bore.”
Presently they kept on playing; unsaid words seemed to be saying, “You are naught but just a bother. Restless thoughts naught but a bore!” “Sue,” they said, “You’re getting batty. Those words? Really said. By Patty! Even though they’re slightly catty, their message you cannot ignore.” Oh dear. Thought I. My mind is gone, like low-tide waves awash down-shore. My mind– writhing on the floor.
Then, in bouts of righteous anger, grabbing up a wooden hanger –Hanger that had held my lovely goose-down coat just moments yore– I swung the tool, heard it connect, with someone’s head, so I suspect. And fin’lly I got to elect to open up that horrid door. Then whom should I be facing, him with cat in hand, my Mark McClure! My McClure? Oh, nevermore!
awsome original poem and nice to see more people from the burgh on the boards...karma
i'm going where the sun keeps shining, thru' the pouring rain, going where the weather suits my clothes. backing off of the north east wind, sailing on summer breeze, and skipping over the ocean like a stone.
I wrote this one as I waited for my first son to be born. The entire thing is essentially a metaphor for the emotions of pre-parenthood.
The Colors of Confusion (of a Father-To-Be)
This Room is a rectangle and a rather small one. But the wallpaper swims toward the ceiling like almond and grey brush strokes.
Here in the late hours of the night as I wait- my head spins from caffeine and insomnia.
The door is on my left. It is shut. A red exit sign does not hang above it. And the imperfect lines and rippling ovals of its wooden finish scream at me. Wood not unlike this chair I rest in, but my chair rocks back and forth. The door is shut.
Here on this threshold of excitement, of a white miracle waiting- I shake scared of what lies behind that door.
I rock with my hands clamped tight to the arm-rest, my arms trembling echo my heart’s fear. And this room rotates with tension, as confusion forces the colors of the wallpaper to move up through the false brush strokes.
Colors race up the walls toward the florescent tubes, keeps pace with the fluttering of my heart. Orange, gold, icy blue morph their way up the short lines like silent, still grass. And the wooden door shrieks the reality that lies behind it. Fluorescent lights spike my eyes and for the first time in my life the colors of confusion are speaking in tongues.
As this carousel whirls like a tornado- my head bobs, my eyelids flutter, I near faint as the door cracks. And hearing it I leap up to step out, But am left blinded and motionless by the white light that has flooded the room.
Dew rises off the April grass in mist, crystallizes the morning with light. And rainbows in thin strands dance through the heavy sunrise air like ghosts. They slip through the windows and disappear from the morning. But the shower bathes the room with silken rays of dawn. Diamonds of the dawn sun waltz across the oaken mantle and three silent women.
Six baby shoes dangle sweet in the sunlight. Six stale feet, Six frozen legs of glass hidden by faded dresses. Stiff white faces, eyes open like corpses freshly strangled.
On the right a doll with wrinkles of age on her cheeks- the fractures of a fall. Miniature ravines crawl about her face- a road-map of two cities and their dividing mountain, their valleys and plains. A tiny river rolls over a powder white mountain, then a forest of eyelashes soon vanish behind the brow, a brunette meadow upon a hill. Across the white plain And soon the river drifts away in the vast jungle atop her head.
Post by suspendedzen on May 9, 2007 9:14:42 GMT -5
“Funeral Ballad for Don Quixote”
A road expands endless littered with old ikons I kneel to pray this path only accepts moving feet
History lives here in shrouds peeled back to read the depths I wish to swim to the bottom Converse with the epochs Shake hands with the Christs Envelope self in every former love But such satiation remains unallowed.
To look Right is to recall every pain To look Left is to recall all old hopes To look Back is to snuff movement To look Up is to be fooled by imagination's taste of every ancient kiss
I saw me in that coffin a few dozen people surround to patronize my spent body with false unsalted tears & memories dredged from back catalogues
Words drip from lips Fingers twitched in clamped together hands Eyes glitter like childhood art moisturized for effect puddles form their purpose to forget Eyes glitter twinkle & shine The only two orbs in Life remaining stoic & honest Words drip from lips fooled by imagination's taste of every ancient kiss Eyes glitter twinkle & shine Honest.
Once upon a sunny morning, on my face, the sun, adorning, Bold bright rays giving my eyes sweet pangs of light pain by the score– Then I grimaced, tasting awful breath that came from the falafel, F’lafel I had eaten, eaten very late the night before. Anyway, I heard a scratching, something at my bedroom door. “’Tis my cat, and nothing more.”
Hazily though I remember, t’happened in a warm September; And each separate bridge club member had her cards upon my floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow– card games plunge me into sorrow, Then I turned to the saguaro– given me by Mark McClure– The card game playing mailman whom his nametag names him Mark McClure– Named McClure for evermore.
But I digress– I looked around, and, sans the ladies on the ground, I noticed not a single thing to ease my fright– mentioned before. Rapidly my heard was beating; stubbornly I stood repeating, “Kitty-Cat’s in need of feeding, so she’s scratching at my door– All she needs is to be eating, so she’s scratching at my door. Scratching, like the day before.”
Verily, my heart grew braver, and, before my strength did waver, “Gals,” said I, “Please move your cards and let me through! Please, I implore! Haven’t you all heard the tapping, tapping leading into rapping? My liveliness: completely sapping from the tapping at the door– That very likely stems from a domestic creature on the floor.” Said they, “Sue, you’re such a bore.”
Presently they kept on playing; unsaid words seemed to be saying, “You are naught but just a bother. Restless thoughts naught but a bore!” “Sue,” they said, “You’re getting batty. Those words? Really said. By Patty! Even though they’re slightly catty, their message you cannot ignore.” Oh dear. Thought I. My mind is gone, like low-tide waves awash down-shore. My mind– writhing on the floor.
Then, in bouts of righteous anger, grabbing up a wooden hanger –Hanger that had held my lovely goose-down coat just moments yore– I swung the tool, heard it connect, with someone’s head, so I suspect. And fin’lly I got to elect to open up that horrid door. Then whom should I be facing, him with cat in hand, my Mark McClure! My McClure? Oh, nevermore!
Great Poe inspired original! Karma now and evermore!
first of all GougeAway you are amazing... Secondly ... I am no poet... this is my stream of conscious placed into stanzas basically but I thought I would put it up here anyway
Jumpers
For the true jumpers, It’s not the landing, it’s not the leap, it’s in the sensation of falling. Is it falling in faith? The faith of landing safely?
While falling no thoughts run through your mind about whom you pass or where you are. An anonymous act nameless, mingled among the nameless the forgotten the mysterious
somehow reassuring. where the true jumpers faith lies, those who do not take stock in what others tell them. Damned be all who choose to spread what they believe as truth. Truth is relative. Faith is Truth. Jump!
Useless Change
The black hole at the base of my skull has spegettified any and all grey matter that once resided within the cranium.
Now things of this nature or relevance (more as lack there of) are all that come out when “pen goes to paper”.
Call it cynicism call it pessimism I am not myself or possibly I have reverted back to myself after a period of not being myself.
I will post 3 poems I have written which have a central theme.
Storms (part I)
In The Hospital Room Of My Dying Grandfather
The door was there. White. And the walls, And the bed, and the man. Seasick. Marooned on a white island, Of a white sea. An electric sky that Pours light on him. I touch him But he is wading elsewhere. Where have the storms gone to? Seasick. Some ammonia Creeps up my nostrils, Oscillating me. The walls Hurt like snow in the winter When my eyes stare painfully Out the windows of my house. Seasick. That feeling rocks my Stomach like the boat On the waves. Waves and Storms that struck the man And Washed him up on the island. The men in sick, white robes Named the storms: Tumor, Malignant, Lung, and forgettable others. They struck him and left him For dead on the island. And the men in robes Came with fancy tools And left him there with the tools.
- Justin Metz[/i]
Storms (part II)
Umbrellas
There was snow in the north When the young man neatly dressed himself In a suit and tie And walked out to his black Cadillac With the snow falling on his shoulders. Traveling south behind the snow, then the rain. And when he arrived at his family’s house In time to join the parade of slow cars with headlights, It wasn’t raining, So they forgot their umbrellas. He was received with sobs and smiles, And afterwards they all piled in cars, without umbrellas, And arrived in line one buy one To bury Grandfather. Some very nice things were said In the small wooden room With candles and wooden seats. The skies were gray, And many colored flowers covered his coffin When they lowered him. And as they walked away in droves The rain fell on their heads.
- Justin Metz[/i]
Storms (part III)
Visiting a Grave
The stones were gray, As the orange sun Showered red roses For one who can’t receive them. The white wind blew the grass by my feet.
Post by hippiehippieshake on May 10, 2007 9:34:33 GMT -5
poopzilla33 said:
heres a corey plankey original
look at the grass, with the eyes of a child.
look at the sky, with the mind of a dreamer.
look at life;
which gives so much and takes so much, ( it is in fact the only thing you truly own ) with a disbelieving stare
niceee corey! i like the e e parentheses
it reminded me of a silly one i wrote way back in high school. i'monna try to dig it up and post it k here it is, kinda bonnarooish::
i forget what i titled this poem, but the title was pretty clever. by: me.
the sun beats its drum perspiration dances on lips humidity lingers
free floating through green waves spread out a lateral jumping jack laying on air backstroke legs kicking she is a grass angel in tango with the blue sky
tickling the crowd with her gaze paging through a novel about a warm spring day she rests on you fingers feeling the words she pauses tracing your story with her eyes all appositives in plain view
your curly locks, garlands of salty popcorn, catch the mild breeze
your piercing eyes, pools of stained glass, hold volumes of dreams
grass goddess toes conducting a symphony of buzzing bees tosses and turns in her sea of weeds as she silently wishes to someday scour your parenthetical phrases
time rolls to the rhythm of the sun she lays a' musing bathing in bouquets of daisies freckles spouting hopefully batting her lashes toward the burnt red shores on which your pages flutter her summer reading
i'm going where the sun keeps shining, thru' the pouring rain, going where the weather suits my clothes. backing off of the north east wind, sailing on summer breeze, and skipping over the ocean like a stone.
