Poetry Cafe:Write and You're Not Wrong

[InklingElf]

Interested in poetry? Write poetry? Post your compositions here (can be related to anything Middle-Earth)! I'll start it off with my favorite and most simple one:

Paragraph

I am a topic
A sentence
Comprised of thought,
The earth’s axis
Halting to a stop
Thoughtless regiments
Of grain and soap

My body
Adorned with
Meat and marrow
Sentences no less than 5 lines
A skeletal structure

I am a chain
Link to the stream
of organized information
commas, colons, semi-colons
Each punctuation
To border the boundless sea

I am one
A puzzle piece
Jammed between
The sidewalk,
The vast expanse
Of drying tar
Asphalt between
The cities

And a period
The 4-way stop sign
To yield to another

[Istawen Aeros]

Here is one that I wrote on the spur of the moment for an RPG on the Downs. It's not very good but it was writeen on the spur of the moment:

Green were the trees under the entrancing sunlight’s beam,
Merrily laughed the jolly waters with gilded sliver gleam,
Here my lover waited under the woodlands bower,
Her hair was soft and golden like the Mallorn flower

Her eyes were as blue as the glorious firmament above,
Sweetly our touching lips spoke of our young love.
Yet now, she sleeps, shackled by the cold hand of Death --
Alas, I did not hear her murmured dying breath! --

Pale, her slender form an ivory stature hidden in the ground.
‘Twas I who left her to slay the orcs that in this land abound.
And as she waited for me, she languished in her wretched misery,
Whilst I frolicked with the crimson flow by the blood-stained sea.

Did I hear her silent cry, heed the beckon of the tears that pled for me
As she prayed for the Valar’s blessing upon her bended knee?
Nay! Others were my comrades -- she in my thoughts ever present,
The sword drank the blood of spawn, yet her memory made all things pleasant.

Slowly she faded, as she pined for me, and then she died for me,
Accompanied to the brink of the grave by her misery.

[InklingElf]

awesome! very ballad-like

[Istawen Aeros]

Thank you, Inkling Elf.

[Lossentilien]

That was on the spur of the moment?!
How'd you fancy writing my advanced higher english poem for me? ;D

[Istawen Aeros]

Lol! Lossentillien...I don't think your teacher would be very pleased with that, eh?

[Lossentilien]

Well it's a really good poem, even if cheating could get me thrown off the course...but hell, I know nothing about tetramic whatsits. And all my poems end up either way too short or just baaad.

[Niluial]

WOWEE!!! Immy that was, is amazing! You are like.. wow I cant tell you how great it is! Amazing!!

[Istawen Aeros]

Why, thank you. After great thinking and pondering, I have decided to show you my Halloween poem ten months in advance:

The rain is falling hard, the night is turning cold,
All is ghostly still, in the darkness the tenses thrill.
Out come the little children: oh the foolish bold
As they seek for treats as a pirate hoards his gold.

I behold the frowning, starless night,
A phantom rustle in the silence, a white shadow at the fence.
A silent cackle in the night cows the little children in their fright,
And wavering apparitions shun the jack o’ lantern’s light.

A winter’s frost comes upon me with icy breath:
Nay, ‘tis fear: it crawls upon my spine with awful leer.
As it leads me to the grave yard where men sleep in death.
Forests of stone, city of the bleak, mutters of whispered breath.

A hapless ghost there is with pallid milky hue,
Vampires suck the blood -- a witch bemoans the flood
As she huddles over the cauldron of her stew.
Amongst the ghoulish crowd is Jack and Casper too.

Then the spiders dance a tune upon a twisted fife --
Webs they spun and o’er the dead were flung.
The hag’s old wart trembled - oh, the tragedies of bewitched life!
As she rasped of Snow White and the end of dream’s life.

The ghosts nurse their long forgotten spleen,
Yet it all drifts away, no more to play
As the children watch them fade upon the green,
Realizing ’tis the superstition of Halloween.

[Niluial]

Wowee Immy... you really have a talent don’t you?

~Niluial

[InklingElf]

Istawen: the last stanza makes me laugh ;D

[Istawen Aeros]

I wonder why...

Here is another poem I wrote in 2000:

The biting North wind and a frozen ear,
Signifies that King Winter is near.
He marches in a royal procession,
Which is full of icy agression.

He brings lacy snowflakes and mounds of snow,
He laughs when he sees a snow man grow.
At his touch a pond turns to a chunk of ice,
And it shall surely children entice.

Winter's merry little wife is Queen Frost,
From her husband she is often lost,
As she pauses to weave a lovely pattern
To show her skill o a comely fern.

Her paintings shall always be fair and bright,
As they sparkle in the morning light.
You often find them on a window sill,
Basking in the frosty morning's chill.

The Princess Snow is her graceful daughter.
And whe she skips across the water,
A blanket of snow she leaves behind
As she kisses the most comely hind.

Across the boring land she does a dance,
And a land of white she surely grants.
With pleasure she listens to shouts of joy,
And that is what she really enjoys.

Her ferocious brother is none other than Sleet,
He'snot like his sister, gentle and sweet,
Taking delight in atacking with sleet
Which he views as a great, might feat.

And this is King Winter's little family,
They never fight but ar full of glee.
So enjoy King Winter while he is here,
For we shan't see him again until next year!

Aargh! I forgot all the corny lines...but hey, it was one of my firsts so don't judge it too harshly...

[GaladrielOlden]

You're awesome, Immy... =)

-Menelien

[Istawen Aeros]

Ah! I'm awesome! Fwee!

[InklingElf]

I wrote this based on my observation of the Visual Arts class at my school...

Pastel

Still figures
Hide behind mellow shadows
Of grape
Both varieties
But still California-grown

A picnic basket
Is followed by Balsamic Vinegar
From Italy
Reminds me of poplar trees lined up
In June
Mingled with the scent of pasta

Like the Olive-Garden commercial
That airs now and then
Although I’ve never actually tried it…

Strokes of pastel
Are followed by fingers
That smudge and blend
Until the shadow cast by the last grape vine
Is perfect

The canvas becomes a window
With no frames
But she, with a serious brow
And wrinkled nose
Remains unsatisfied.