Poetry Circle

[ImTheWombat]

Inspired by Langdon Smith's "Evolution," I decided to write my own romantic poem featuring the topic of reincarnation. Feel free to share any of your own poetry.


Hide and Seek

In life, we find each other.
In Rebirth, we’ll search again
For the life that helped us live so much
That we may die with them.
But then the life continues
Placing us back at the start
But in a slightly forward time
Then previously, we were.

This time I think I’ll hide from you
We’ll have a bit of fun
For you will be the seeker
Analyzing everyone.
All day you’ll ponder who I am
And search all through the world
Until I am revealed to you,
My identity unfurled.

But, if throughout your lengthy search
You should fail to find me,
Then alone, our lives will fall apart
And losers both, we’ll be.
The next life will be easy
For I know you all to well
In the turn for you to hide
Your “victory”, I’ll quell.

The reason being not your skill
At hiding from a man
But because the length of time
Without him wears you thin.
You’ll let me find you quickly
Without much time to pass.
For, in this life, we’ll both be seekers
And find each other fast.

“But how will I know you are you
And you know I am I?”
“It’s as simple as saying we will”
Is my only reply.
But that is not enough for you.
You need a guarantee
And though I can’t provide one
I’ll lie one through my teeth.

Now it’s time to seek again,
The hiding’s all but ceased,
So that we may spend much more time
Living between the sheets.
Yet love is not what makes me come
Back to you each time
It’s simply out of habit
That your life collides with mine.

In truth there may be many
That are better matched with me
But I know that you will suit me well
Your lover, I will be.
And you may think that someone else
Could provide a change of scene
But unconsciously you’ll make your way
To the love that already has been.

On and on, we’ll hide and seek
Until life exists no more
And then in death we’ll live as one
And know that we were sure
That lives can weave throughout the time
That man has walked along
So that someone who had died with Christ
Could later sing a Beatles song.

 

[The Amazing Lee]

Upon a lonely kind of room I sat
and typed, a lonely poem to you
it seems I've more to prove my friend
as this lonely soul wants more from this.

 

[ImTheWombat]

I was bored again and wrote this because I wanted to bump the thread without being a tool that just types "bump".

Cephalic Congestion

Out of the ashes, he was born of pain
And all that he knew to do was moan.
A particular man
In a particular place
Who had lost all site of his home.
He wandered the streets, til daylight ceased
Then curled up on the pavement, cold.

All through the night, the passers would cry
As they saw this grown man in pain.
But pity him not
For two years have passed
Yet he still cries out in vain.
He never would try to fix any lie
That drove his poor self insane.

There on the streets, he was found by a man
Who promised to give him a house and food.
The man on the street
Refused this kind act.
In his own words, He'd rather brood.
So pity him not, And take your best shot
For this man knows not how to change mood.

Not so terrible things have happened to him
He just doesn't know how he's meant to deal
With things that have passed
That he fails to forget
I say just worry about your next meal.
But still he sighs with his watery eyes
As he dies before learning to feel.

 

[Sensi]

I love your poems. Your are very talented. They are so true to the heart.

 

[ImTheWombat]

I love your poems. Your are very talented. They are so true to the heart.

Thank you.

But being the writer, I guess I'm overly critical.

I like the content of Hide and Seek, but I just don't like how simplistic the rhyming scheme is. And, of course, since I was inspired by Langdon Smith's "Evolution" I always see parts of that poem in mine and it drives me a little nuts.

I showed "Cephalic Congestion" to one of my friends before I posted it and his main criticism is that he thought I should give the man a name (which I can understand, because then I don't have to use the word "man" over and over again) and that the content of the poem was strong enough that I could still maintain the universality of the character and still give him a name. Yet, I hesitated giving him a name because I would rather leave him open for interpretation so that others could see the man as the manifestation of someone's pain. I feel, like it could be related to more than just a person but also just a certain state of mind. In that the pain is the person and when it dies, it is someone getting rid of the pain without really learning how to use it to better themselves or change their ways that led to their pain in the first place.

Sorry, I rant.

 

[Sensi]

In the Hide and Seek poem, I appreciate the simplistic rhythm. i feel it might even allow the reader to reach into their own emotions by not being filled with so much complexity.

I agree with everything you said about "Cephalic Congestion". Naming the man would narrow the view and by doing so would take away from it.

 

[ImTheWombat]

Yet again, instead of a BUMP. Doesn't anyone else write poetry? I mean, I know its a little effeminate, but still, its a very involved form of expression. Oh and for this, i pretty much used free verse (though there is a slight semblance of structure) and pretty much said "Toast Rhyming!"

Sunset for a Blind Man

Imagine, just once, that your face was the sky
Your hair, why of course is the Sun.
Imagine, the fiery blaze of your hair,
In colors you don't even know,
Was gently lulled away from your top
By your arms, the trees, stretching their limbs.
Reaching out far, to catch your hair, the star
That allows life to continue as such.

And Imagine, just once, that you cradled your hair
In your arms, giving off the faint hues
Of the fiery blaze that's your hair, that's the Sun
Before giving way to the moon.
Your face, it darkens, but still we can see
For your hair, out of sight, still gleams.
But the moon tries to stake out this spot of his friend
Who is sleeping within your arms.

Then pinholes, they open up throughout your face
Shedding light that can't challenge your hair
But they twinkle and gleam, shining bright, nonetheless
For the people who stare at your head
And many may look up and ponder and wonder
What all of the tiny lights hold.
For if our Sun is a star and that star is your hair
Then those pinholes are stars, and hair too.

But as we turn quickly, while standing so still
Your hair gently climbs out your hands
It frightens the darkness and sends pinholes collapsing
Into your skin that's so fair.
It takes its place at the top of the sky
And sits awaiting all day
For the hands to come cradling that sweet fiery blaze
And the pinholes to come out again.

 

[ImTheWombat]

I guess no one likes writing poetry anymore

 

[Hades]

Hahaha, I write poetry but I don't think I'd ever share it with anybody.

Great stuff though, man.

 

[ImTheWombat]

So my car battery died earlier today (or it could possibly be the alternator) and while I was waiting for the tow truck (which took toasting forever) I wrote this poem.


1104

The phone, it rings, it sings its song
It plays its jingle, till she cuts it off.
No more ringing or singing, except from my voice
That sings like a scream through the phone.

An hour ago, they said they'd be here
Yet I wait in the rain, in the cold
My freezing white fingers pressing small silver buttons
And typing one one zero four

I'll sit in my car, try to start it again
Before I give up this ninth try
And I'll have to wait for as long as it takes
For the tow truck to come barrelling by.

No heat in my car, for the battery's dead
And the jump cables seem to not work
Another hour has passed and still no one has come
So, again I press one one oh four.

The lady is bitter, which you wouldn't expect
From a company whose callers are common
In the fact that they're probably mad and pissed off
Already before the dialtone sounds.

She speaks with a sigh as her fingers are typing
Saying someone should be on their way
She tells me to dial if I have any problems
The extension's eleven-o-four.

If in an hour, they still haven't come
I think I may just cut my losses
And walk away from this car and never return
Never pressing one one zero four.

 

[ComicChick]

i write poetry too, but i dont tell anyone about it lol.

i've posted anonymously on other sites, like sohh.com and mypoetry.org

too bad there isnt a poetry section on the hype

 

[ImTheWombat]

"Instead of a Bump"

My head is filled with liquid drugs.
I can't remember who I was
Before I put this paper on
My swollen blistered tongue.

Is it over?
Has it ended?
Is there more left to do?
Am I still me?

I feel as if I've greatly changed
Due to my journey through the strange.
Are there still things strewn all about
For me to hear aloud?

Is that sound real?
Has it faded?
Is there more left to hear?
Am I still me?

There's nothing left here but a cage
That keeps me stuffed and far away
From the outside as they look in
On what I could have been.

Is that bright light?
Has it ceased now?
Is there more left to see?
Am I still free?

 

[Majic Walrus]

Roses are red,
Violets are not.
What's in my head?
It must be snot.

 

[katie_girl09]

That's actually really good. I can't write poetry for the life of me. I prefer to write prose. And I also wouldn't have the guts to post it, so you get a big thumbs up from me.

Roses are red,
Violets are not.
What's in my head?
It must be snot.

That would explain a lot of your ridiculous arguments in versus threads.